He parts the plastic and walks through it and I stop because I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble if I go into the room. I stand there and try to see through the plastic, but it’s several sheets thick and everything is blurry like heavy rain on a bus windshield.
I open the plastic overlap a little and peek in and it’s just blank walls. Whiter than white. Blanker than blank. Just like me. But this is a fresh start. In a week or two, this room will house something new—something I’ve never seen before. Just like me. I stand there until the security guard from the adjacent armor room taps me lightly on the shoulder. I say, “Sorry,” but I don’t really mean it. I’ve been to this museum so many times and I’ve never been as moved as this—by something so ordinary. A blank room. A man with a ladder. The smell of fresh paint. Construction.
The burr in my sternum melts and I can’t feel its spurs anymore. I walk around a big pillar and into the armor room with my hand on my chest. I think of ten-year-old Sarah and I remember she had the burr. I never met six-year-old Sarah, but I know she had the burr, too. And now it’s gone. Just like that.
? ? ?
I stare at the sixteenth-century Saxon armor with its chest spike. I picture this armor in action. Jousting—galloping full speed at another man on a horse, aiming a huge stick at him and thinking of nothing else but to knock him off. It’s a furious pace. It’s a violent game. Your heart beats out of its cage. Every time it’s original because you never know what’s going to happen.
As I stare at the armor, I decide to get back on my horse. I decide that tomorrow, I’m going to draw a pear. I decide originality is inborn, same as my circular fun wave. I decide something new happens every single day.
I am left with myself—I can’t get away from her.
I tell her: Slow down.
I tell her: You can’t listen closely when you’re galloping.
I tell her: Maybe if you take off all that armor, you won’t feel so heavy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Books don’t find their way to readers all by themselves. I owe thanks to many people.
None of my books would have been possible without Andrew Karre, who plucked me from obscurity after fifteen years of rejection letters. But this book wouldn’t be possible if not for his continuing belief in me. Thank you, AK. Also, to the fine people at Dutton, all of you—thank you. And Michael Bourret, thank you for always steering me in the right direction. You are my ambassador of Kwan and I am so grateful.
My sister Robyn, a solid-scrubs kind of ER nurse: Thank you for Mexico where this book was born and thank you for putting people together again in the middle of the night. Kathryn Gaglione Hughes, thank you so much for the bus stop—this book is proof that graduate lectures inspire. Azaan, Kate, Isabel, and Lilly from Austin TBF in fall 2014: Thank you for encouraging me to keep writing a book that was causing me pain and confusion. Your words were gold.
These friends helped me deal with a lot of crazy stuff during the writing of this novel: Kathy Snyder, C.G. Watson, e.E. Charlton-Trujillo, Beth Kephart, Zac Brewer, Sr., Kim Miller, Andrew Smith, Beth Zimmerman, and a few others not listed here because it’s hard to remember everyone at one time. I can’t thank you enough for your advice, listening ears, kindness. Without friends like you, nothing new would ever happen. And as always, thank you to my readers. All of you. And to the librarians, booksellers, teachers, bloggers, and anyone who digs my groove enough to pass the word along. Your support means the world to me. My gratitude is galaxy-sized.