It’s right about four o’clock, according to my phone, when we pull into the parking lot and Beth cuts the engine. For a second, we both just sit there, staring out through the windshield.
“We have an hour,” she tells me. “But we don’t gotta stay the whole time if you don’t want to.”
“Okay.”
I slide my hands nervously over my jeans, and little strands of dog hair cling to my palms. Silly as it sounds, realizing that none of them belong to Lila hits me with a pang of aching sadness.
Beth waits another minute before asking, “You ready, Baby Sister?”
I take a deep breath, then nod slowly.
Beth unlocks the doors and we both climb out of the car. It’s still summer, so the back of my shirt and jeans feel warm and wrinkled from sitting too long. I spend more time than I need to smoothing them out, but Beth waits. When I’m done, I unfold my cane and follow my sister across the parking lot and toward the large, block-shaped building.
We’ve gotta go through security as soon as we get inside. A woman in a uniform takes my cane from me for a second, since it’ll set off the metal detector. She gives it back with a quiet, “Here you go, sweetheart,” when we’re through. I hold it tight in my right hand while Beth squeezes my left. I ain’t sure if the gesture’s more for her or me.
My sister leads the way down a short hallway and to a set of double doors. Another security guard opens them for us, and we step into a big, square room. A few long tables are lined up end-to-end, dividing the room in half. On one side—the side Beth and I walk in on—there are a bunch of people. Men, women, even a few other kids. All dressed in various colors. All chatting or laughing or even crying, if I’d have to guess based on the sniffling I can hear. And on the other side of the table are people in bright orange jumpsuits.
Beth stops next to two empty chairs. I don’t sit down right away, though. I’m too busy looking at the woman on the other side of the table. She’s got blonde hair, the same color as Beth’s and mine, pulled back into a low ponytail, and she’s wearing the same orange jumpsuit as everyone else on her side of the table.
And even though I’m going blind and I ain’t seen her in months, I recognize her immediately.
“Hey, Hadley,” she says. Her voice is a bit hoarse, and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
“Hi, Mama.”
For a second, I’m overwhelmed. I think about those letters she sent, the stack of them I read all at once. They’d been full of apologies and promises that things would be better one day. But also just stories about what she was doing in jail—working in the kitchens, reading lots of books. Until now, though, all of that had been hard to imagine—Mama actually in jail or the future she kept assuring me of in that big, bold print.
But now I’m here, seeing her in person for the first time in months. And it all feels real. Her actually living in this place, locked away. But also that, eventually, she’ll get out of here. And we’ll get to be together again.
And despite everything I’ve said or felt all summer, looking at her, hearing her voice—I know that’s all I really want.
Mama turns and looks over at my sister then. “Hi, Beth.”
“Hey.” I think Beth might be trying not to cry, too.
“It’s good to see y’all,” she says. “I … I’ve missed you. Both of you. Come on and, uh, sit down, okay?”
Beth sits down. I take a second longer, giving myself time to fold up my cane before sitting beside her, across from Mama.
There’s an awkward silence for a minute, then Mama reaches across the table and takes my hand. Glancing over, I can see she’s taken one of Beth’s, too. My sister and I look at each other for a second, then look back at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she ain’t bothering not to cry now. “To both of y’all. I’m … I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” Beth says, and now she’s crying, too.
“And me, too.” And, dang it, I’m crying as well.
I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t get the feeling everyone in this room was far too preoccupied to notice us.
We all take a minute just to sit and look at each other before Mama focuses on me, squeezing my hand. “You start school this week, right?”
I nod.
“Sounds like you’ve had a busy summer,” she says. “I heard there was a dog named Lila involved. And I can see you’ve got a shiny new cane here. Can you tell me about it?”
“I thought Beth had been filling you in on everything,” I say.
“I did,” Beth agrees. “Most of it.”
Mama nods. “She did. But I’ve missed your voice, Hadley. And I wanna hear it from you. Why don’t you start at the beginning. Tell me all about the adventures you’ve been on this summer.”
So I do.
Keep reading for a peek at The Swift Boys & Me!
I never told the boys I saw their daddy leave that night.
I was outside getting the mail for Mama. I was supposed to check the mailbox when I got off the bus in the afternoon, but it was the last day of sixth grade, and I was so excited to be free for the summer that I’d completely forgot about the mail. It was always just bills, anyway. There was never anything for me except on my birthday or at Christmas, when Mamaw and Papaw sent me cards in brightly colored envelopes. Mama was insistent that I always check the mailbox, though. She said those bills I thought were so boring were important — that’s how we kept the lights on.
But I’d forgotten that day, so when she looked on the coffee table and saw there was nothing there, she asked, “Nola Baby, did you get the mail?”
It was late — already past nine — but since it was the last day of school and all, Mama had agreed to let me stay up until eleven. So I was sitting on the couch eating a big bowl of strawberry ice cream and watching Cartoon Network. “Um … ,” I said. “I think I forgot.”
“Well, go check for me now, okay?”
“I’m eating,” I whined.
“It takes all of three seconds to go out there, open the box, and come back,” she said. “Your ice cream won’t melt.”
I sighed, all heavy and dramatic — the sigh that always made Mama say things like “Lord help me, I’m about to have a teenager on my hands.” She still had eleven months before that happened, though, so I didn’t know what she was talking about. What did my sighs have to do with being a teenager? My friend Brian was a teenager, and I never heard him sigh.
I went outside, barefoot, in my T-shirt and shorts. The concrete was warm, even though the sun had set. My teachers in elementary school said that May was still technically spring, but it might as well be summer in Besser County. It had been in the nineties all week, and even at night the humidity was so bad it made my ponytail frizz into a big brown pouf the second I stepped outside.
Mr. Swift was already in his car with the engine running as I made my way down the driveway. Even though we lived in a duplex — which is basically two houses smushed together into one, but separated by a wall on the inside so two families could live there — we didn’t share a driveway. Mama and I had one leading to our side of the house and the Swifts had one leading to theirs. But they were still close enough to each other, only our front walks and some grass between them. Mr. Swift started backing down his driveway just as I opened the mailbox.
There was nothing in it, so it had been a wasted trip. I shut the little door and looked up. Mr. Swift’s car — a silver Saturn — was turning onto the road. I figured he was running an errand, like going to the grocery or the hardware store or something. I guess I should have realized that most places were already closed. Our tiny little town shut down at about eight every night. But I didn’t think much of it, seeing him leaving.
I waved.
And he waved back.
I found out later that was more of a good-bye than his boys ever got.
So many people (and animals) have impacted the creation of this book, and I could not be more grateful to all of them.
Thanks to my
publishing team: Brianne Johnson and Allie Levick at Writers House and Jody Corbett, David Levithan, and the whole Scholastic team, specifically Baily Crawford, Josh Berlowitz, Elisabeth Ferrari, Emily Heddleson, Lizette Serrano, Erin Berger, Rachel Feld, Julia Eisler, Jana Haussmann, and Ann Marie Wong. I’ve been very blessed to have the most amazing people in my corner. Thank you all for believing in Hadley’s story.
Thanks to my family and friends—you all are my biggest fans, my toughest critics, and always, always, always my champions. There are too many of you to name here, but you know who you are. And you know that I love you.
Thank you to all the Orientation and Mobility teachers I’ve had over the years, and to all the O&M teachers out there helping blind kids and adults. I don’t know where I’d be today without the skills I learned from my instructors.
Thank you to Corey. I know you’ll never read this (you’re a dog, after all), but you’ve changed my life just as much as many of the people listed here. Getting a service dog was the smartest decision of my life. You’ve opened my heart, brought me a greater sense of independence, and inspired me to tell more stories about the amazing bond between people and animals. Thank you for being the best good girl. I’m sorry I don’t give you more treats.
And, finally, thank you! Yes, you. My readers. None of this—none of my books—would be possible without you. Thank you!
Kody Keplinger was born and raised in a small Kentucky town. During her senior year of high school, she wrote her debut young adult novel, which has since been adapted into a major motion picture. She is the author of many other books as well, including the middle-grade novel The Swift Boys & Me. Her books have landed on the New York Times bestseller list, the USA Today bestseller list, and the YALSA Top Ten Quick Picks for Reluctant Young Adult Readers list, and have been nominated for numerous awards. Kody lives in New York City, where she teaches writing workshops and continues to write books for kids and teens. You can find more about her and her books at kodykeplinger.com.
Copyright © 2020 by Kody Keplinger
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Keplinger, Kody, author.
Title: Lila and Hadley / Kody Keplinger.
Description: First edition. | New York: Scholastic Press, 2020. | Audience: Ages 9–11. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: Hadley is an angry girl: angry at her mother for embezzling money, angry at her estranged older sister, Beth, whom she has to live with while her mother is in jail, angry at having to move to Kentucky away from her friends, and angry at the world because she has retinitis pigmentosa and is slowly going blind; but then she meets Lila, a rescued pit bull who has not responded to anyone else—so if Hadley can train Lila, maybe the dog can get adopted into her forever home, and just maybe Lila can help Hadley deal with her own problems.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019023518 (print) | LCCN 2019023519 (ebook) | ISBN 9781338306095 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781338306118 (ebk)
Subjects: LCSH: Pit bull terriers—Juvenile fiction. | Dogs—Training—Juvenile fiction. | Retinitis pigmentosa—Juvenile fiction. | Blind children—Juvenile fiction. | Sisters—Juvenile fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Juvenile fiction. | Anger—Juvenile fiction. | Kentucky—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Pit bull terriers—Fiction. | Dogs—Training—Fiction. | Retinitis pigmentosa—Fiction. | Blind—Fiction. | People with disabilities—Fiction. | Sisters—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Anger—Fiction. | Kentucky—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.K439 Li 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.K439 (ebook) | DDC 813.6 [Fic]—dc23
First edition, April 2020
Cover design by Baily Crawford
Cover photos ©: dog: Sketchart/Shutterstock; girl: Michael Frost.
e-ISBN 978-1-338-30611-8
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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