Also by
Emily Wibberley & Austin Siegemund-Broka
Always Never Yours
If I’m Being Honest
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 by Austin Siegemund-Broka and Emily Wibberley
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Viking & colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Wibberley, Emily, author. Siegemund-Broka, Austin, author. Title: Time of our lives / Emily Wibberley & Austin Siegemund-Broka. Description: New York : Viking, An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020. | Summary: When two high school students with different ideas about their futures meet while touring colleges, they come to value each other’s point of view, and an unexpected romance unfolds. Identifiers: LCCN 2019014201 | ISBN 9781984835833 (hardcover) Subjects: | CYAC: Universities and colleges—Fiction. | Automobile travel—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Memory—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Love—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W487 Ti 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014201
Ebook ISBN 9781984835840
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
* * *
To my grandmother, who told me stories of the Robles and Contreras family —EW
* * *
To my brother, who’s had my back —ASB
* * *
CONTENTS
Emily Wibberley & Austin Siegemund-Broka
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Fitz
Fitz
Juniper
Juniper
Fitz
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from If I’m Being Honest
About the Authors
Fitz
THIS IS A terrible idea.
I watch New Hampshire go by in the bus window. The brittle limbs of the trees on every sidewalk blur together. The bus is close to full, a tall woman holding her service German shepherd’s harness in front of me. Despite the crowd and the lurching motion of the drive, the dog looks unperturbed. Lucky him.
I wonder what Lewis is doing right now. He’s probably drinking with his fraternity brothers. Typical Friday night behavior. Now that he and Prisha have broken up, he’s likely looking for his rebound. I’m guessing he won’t notice if I don’t get in to Boston on time.
The knitting needles of the woman in the back of the bus clack incessantly. I narrow my focus in on the pocket dictionary open on my knees, which brush the seat in front of me. I’ve had the book since I was a freshman. It’s a compendium of obscure, unusual words, and it’s become a bit of a pastime to flip through the pages. Words and their definitions are a hobby of mine. I like how they impose temporary control on the world, putting names to the intangible. Not to mention, having a sweet vocabulary makes me effortlessly cool and a hit with the ladies.
The dictionary is open to So-, where I find it. Solicitude. The state of protective concern or worry. I underline the word in a single pencil stroke.
I put the book in my bag and glance out the window again. If Lewis isn’t drinking with his friends, he’s probably working on job applications for next year. I know he has other things he could be doing this week. While I’m not in a frat or employable anywhere other than the Froyo place in the mall, I have things I could be doing too.
Going on a college tour down the East Coast wasn’t my idea. I’ve made my decision. My application to Southern New Hampshire University was out the door on December 1. And going with Lewis definitely wasn’t my idea. It was my mom’s. She insisted on Lewis and me having the opportunity for “brotherly bonding.” Besides, Lewis is the one with a credit card, which we’ll use for meals and hotels. Mom promised she’ll pay him back. Having him come with is annoyingly logical.
I don’t know what Lewis and I will talk about. The only things I know about him—he’s in a frat, and he recently broke up with his girlfriend, Prisha—come from overhearing his infrequent calls home on holidays and the occasional weeknight. The only other things I know about my brother could be summarized on his résumé. He’s in his final year at Boston University, he’s about to finish his degree in economics, and he’s searching for finance jobs in New York. Or Boston. Or Chicago.
Anywhere but home.
I drop my eyes to the folder on the seat next to me. I’ve only glanced through it once or twice, which makes me feel a little guilty. It contains weeks of my mom’s careful research on every school I’m meant to visit from Boston to Baltimore in the next ten days, every program she thinks I could theoretically find interesting, the email confirmations for each hotel she’s booked for Lewis and me, an envelope of spending money, even printouts of local restaurants and “places of interest.” It’s heartbreakingly detailed. Following the first day in Boston, I’m supposed to head to Rhode Island and Connecticut, then New York City and colleges in western Pennsylvania, finally endin
g in Baltimore and home in time for Christmas.
Tonight, the plan is for me to reach South Station in Boston, take the MBTA bus to BU, and meet Lewis in front of his dorm. I don’t know how Mom convinced Lewis to drive me down the coast, but I do know this entire trip was orchestrated to fit his schedule. He finished his in-class exams today, and Mom planned our visit to New York to coincide with one of his job interviews. Never mind the timing necessitated I miss a week of school—something my mom found negligible since I don’t have finals until after winter break.
I know plenty of my classmates would love the opportunity to ditch for a week. But I like school. I like AP English and debating film noir favorites with my friends. I especially like my perfect attendance record. What I don’t like is pretending the question of college is worth the weight everyone places on it. It’s this blinding prize everyone’s rushing toward. Not me. College isn’t important enough to disrupt everything else in my life.
The bus rumbles to a halt in front of a post office. On the curb outside the window, a few people huddle in hats and heavy coats, the sunset lighting them in vermillion. It’s cold, not yet snowy. In a couple of weeks, plowed piles of dirty snow will line every curb.
The doors open with a hiss and a thud. The first passenger on is a girl who’s probably about my age. She’s cute, I can’t help noticing, with purple lipstick and an Elliott Smith shirt. When she tugs off her beanie, curly black hair spills onto her shoulders. She’s the kind of girl who makes me painfully conscious of what a pale redheaded nobody I am.
I could invite her to sit, but I probably won’t. I tend to keep to myself in cafeterias and classrooms, content with the close friends I’ve had for years. Going out of my way to chat with random girls on public transportation isn’t quite my style. Even if I occasionally think about doing exactly that.
She catches my eye, and a small smile springs to her aubergine lips. I hesitate.
Fuck me. A cute girl notices me and I hesitate. Lewis would say this is why I’ve never had a girlfriend. Part of me wants to move my folder and offer her the seat. It’s just, then she might notice the BU brochure poking out of the folder, and then she might want to talk about college. And then I’d have to explain why I’m not going to any of the colleges on this diligently prepared itinerary. This punctiliously prepared itinerary. Or she might want to tell me how great her boyfriend is, and how he plays lead guitar in a band, benches three hundred, and could have his pick of girls but chose her, and then we’d be in that conversation.
Whatever. I reach for my folder nevertheless—but she’s already walking past my row. I place the folder back on the seat, and in that moment, it feels like I’m destined for a lifetime of putting folders back on empty seats next to mine. The bus doors close, and we veer away from the curb.
In the cool plexiglass of the window, I catch my reflection watching me despondently. I wonder if I’m the kind of guy Beanie Girl would go for. My red hair, pale freckled skin, blue eyes set in a narrow face—I don’t think I’m bad looking, but I’m not exactly magazine-cover material.
In my pocket, my phone vibrates. I reach for it with a quickness that’s become instinct, but it’s only Lewis.
Room 2303 when you get here. It’s open. Will meet you when I’m out of my exam.
Without replying, I shove my phone back into my jacket pocket. The bus pulls up to the next stop, the one I’ve been waiting for. I grab my things and get off.
The cold bites my nose the moment my feet hit the pavement, the familiarity of this specific street corner enveloping me reassuringly. Tugging my coat tighter, I swiftly walk a block down, then turn the corner. It’s a ten-minute trip through the neighborhood I’ve known my entire life, past the library and the elementary school. Finally, I walk up to my door, fumble for the keys in my pocket, and, with a deep breath, step inside.
I’d know the smell of home no matter what. It’s the rosy warmth of hardwood floorboards in the winter, combined with whatever Mom’s cooking. Right now, it’s eggplant Parmesan. I pause in the doorway.
Off to my right, Mom’s seated at the kitchen table, exactly where I left her two hours ago, reading her anthology of American literature. Her head springs up in surprise. Recognition settles on her features, until it’s replaced by a disappointment she attempts to smother, not quite succeeding. With gentle bemusement in her voice, she says, “You’re home.”
“I am,” I reply.
“You’re supposed to be in South Station,” she says.
I take a deep breath, as if extra oxygen is all I need to convince my mom against this plan. “I got off the bus an hour in, and then I . . . I bought a ticket back with my own money. I’ve thought about this—”
But she talks over me. “Fitzgerald Holton, you’re impossible. I’ve booked your hotels. Your brother is packed and waiting for you. You’re not bowing out of this trip. It’s happening.”
“But what if—”
“Everything is fine,” she says, placing undeniable emphasis on fine and closing the heavy cover on the anthology she was reading. She gets up from the table and pushes in the worn wooden chair. “Everything will be fine. You have nothing to worry about.”
I have everything to worry about. “I have a French quiz on Tuesday,” I say instead. “And—I’m going to be really behind if I’m out the entire week.”
“You’ll make up the quiz,” she replies, “and we both know you’ll mostly be missing movies in class and free study time.”
I say nothing. She watches me for a moment.
“It’s ten days,” she continues, her voice softening. “I’ll be okay on my own for ten days.”
I want to point out it’s not only ten days. It’s four years. If Lewis’s experience is any indication, it’s four years, each increasingly disconnected from home. She might not need me now, but she will soon. I hold the comment in, though. I promised myself I’d never throw her situation in her face.
“I know change is hard,” she says, “but give this a chance. You can’t make me your excuse not to.”
She’s not an excuse. She’s a reason, a very good one. But pointing that out would only put us on the road to an argument we’ve had enough times to know neither of us will ever win.
She continues. “You’re really going to make your poor mother—who has three dissertation drafts to read—escort you personally to your brother’s doorstep? Because I will, you know.” The corners of her mouth tug up. “Remember your eighth-grade field trip?”
I can’t hide a smile of my own. I’d tried to stay home instead of going on a history class trip to the Paul Revere House. It was my first overnight field trip, and I wasn’t interested in sharing a hotel room with three guys I barely knew. But when Mom came home and found me playing video games, she promptly drove me into Boston and deposited me with my teacher with strict orders not to permit me to leave under any circumstances. Even if it was horribly embarrassing, the effort she went to was kind of funny.
She catches my smile, and it’s clear she wins this one. I don’t enjoy arguing with her, and the trip will only be a week and a half. For all her talk of dragging me onto buses, she can’t actually force me to choose a college I don’t want to. The least I can do is give her trip a chance. “No . . .” I huff. “I won’t make my poor and very obstinate mother take me into Boston. I’ll absquatulate to South Station on my own,” I say, hoping she’ll enjoy the word choice.
Sure enough, she raises an eyebrow. “Absquatulate?”
“To make off with, humorously.”
“I swear, Fitzgerald, I’m a professor of the English language, and I don’t know half the words rattling around in that head of yours.” She walks to the doorway and straightens my coat.
I can’t help it. The nerves set in. I know she notices the change in my expression, because she places her hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.
“Ev
erything will be fine,” she repeats. From the sharpness in her gaze, I’m almost convinced. “You deserve a chance to know what’s out there. If you hate it, I promise, I won’t force you to go somewhere you don’t want to be. If after everything, you still feel SNHU is the best school for you, I’ll proudly send in your enrollment fee. I know it’s a great college—I have been teaching there for twenty years. I just want to know you’re choosing it too.”
I place my hand on the door handle behind me. “Remember you said that when I get back and I’m still set on SNHU. I know what I want.”
Mom folds her arms. “Just humor me,” she says, sounding a little amused.
Fitz
TWO HOURS LATER, I’m in South Station.
Juniper
“THIS IS A terrible idea.”
I hear Tía Sofi in the kitchen as I’m walking toward the stairs. Her voice is brassy, like a trumpet in a parade for which she’s the bandleader and every other member. I vent a breath out through my nose, knowing I’m not escaping this conversation. In fact, I might be having this conversation for the rest of my life.
I turn around, preparing to repeat myself for the thirty-fourth time (not exaggerating), and head for Tía.
The kitchen is like every room in the house, dense with inescapable reminders of every Ramírez who’s ever lived under its roof. There’s turquoise stenciling where the soft yellow walls touch the ceiling, hand-painted by my cousin Isabel, who teaches art at the community college in town. My brothers’ homework clutters the desk my abuelo built with wood from his grandparents’ home. The wide window over the counter lets sunlight leap in and land on the faded photograph of the first Ramírez who came here from the city of Guadalajara, four generations ago, hanging in its heavy frame beside the window.
Tía, wearing an expression of consternation, cups a ceramic blue mug in her hands at the kitchen table. The scene is unbearably familiar, right down to Tía’s posture and the tinny classical guitar coming from the radio I’ve given up begging my parents to replace.
Time of Our Lives Page 1