Meant to Be
Page 22
Uncle Jim looks at me resignedly. “Something like that,” he acknowledges.
“Then, if you wouldn’t mind leaving, I kind of want to be alone with my message.”
“Say no more. But I get a report at some point, right?”
“You got it, dude.”
“You really should stop watching Full House reruns.”
“I know. They’re terrifying. Now leave, please.”
Uncle Jim walks out, and Rugburn strolls back into my room.
“Glad you’re here. I could use the moral support.” Rugburn shrugs indifferently and begins licking his butthole. “You’re the best, Rugburn. Never change.”
I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth like we learned in the yoga unit in gym class. Then I click open the message from Hendrix Cutter.
CHAPTER 39
Hi Agatha,
I’m guessing you know who I am, from the name on my message. It’s crazy to think that my name is printed on your body. I hope it’s legible. My mom’s always getting on me about my handwriting. Because that matters, apparently. I like the way the As in your name look like stars. Even though I’ve barely said anything, I already feel like this is too personal. Is it supposed to feel natural? Should we subconsciously know things about each other? All I know about you is what your friend Lish told me. She seems nice. Very enthusiastic. My best friend’s name is Patrick. We met in primary school.
Truly I don’t know where to begin. I feel pressure to tell you everything all in one go, but that’s not how it usually works. In my vast dating experience (cough cough), you meet a girl, you like her, you go out, she cooks for you (kidding). I don’t know. Even though you and I have this connection, I will admit I’m skeptical. It seems impossible that a phenomenon like this could help people find partners. (So you know, I deleted about fifteen different words there and wound up with partner. It felt the least traumatic.)
I’m curious about your thoughts on the matter. I’m quite curious about a lot of things about you, actually.
Do we write? Chat? You’re coming here, aren’t you? Do we wait until you get to the airport, then have a brilliantly awkward first hug? Perhaps we can have a TV crew document it for added discomfort.
I feel compelled to write more, everything really, but my band has a show tonight and I have to go. I play drums. Do you play any instruments?
I need to stop writing. Stop writing, Hendrix. Send the message, Hendrix. Stop talking to yourself, Hendrix.
Hendrix
PS If you ever doubted what my first name was, please see the last paragraph.
I wish this were a real letter. A letter on notebook paper, written in smudgy pen, so I could hug it to my chest and read it and reread it and smell the pages for remnants of Hendrix’s scent. I want to see the way he writes all his letters, not just the ones in his name.
I scurry to my uncle’s room and rap on the door. “Uncle Jim, can I use your printer?” He helps me print a copy of the e-mail, as long as I also print one for him to read. I tell him I will, on the condition that he won’t speak to me about it until I am completely ready.
Back on my bed, Rugburn at my side (more like on top of my head), I read every sentence fifty times. One hundred times. I am enamored with this message. Every word makes my breath hitch and my skin tingle and my stomach butterflies do their happy dance. I refuse to believe this is love. It’s a single message. There is no possible way I am in love with this guy.
I realize something, and I jolt upright in panic. Rugburn flies off the bed and darts out of the room.
I have to write Hendrix Cutter back.
CHAPTER 40
“You’re overthinking it,” Lish tells me over Viddle. “He’s going to like you instantly, so you don’t have to be all flowery with your words. I certainly wasn’t.”
“Yeah, and you used the word boobs three times.”
“Sorry about that. Pregnancy brain,” she sings.
“That’s already getting old, Lish.”
“Prepare thyself for eight more months of it.”
“Did you notice how he called them breasts in the e-mail he wrote you? Serious bonus points,” I note.
“Quit stalling, and write your lover a letter,” Lish commands.
“My lover?”
“Agatha! Do it!” Lish hangs up on me.
I would like to say that I went with my gut and wrote exactly what I felt, but in truth it took me two hours to write four measly paragraphs.
Hi Hendrix,
I’m glad you wrote. I’ve been pretty stubborn about the whole thing, to be honest. It’s still hard for me to believe in MTBs even though there you are, hovering over my breast (that didn’t come out quite as I meant it to). I am going to admit flat-out that I’m nervous, and I don’t always present my best self in messages. There are so many words to choose from, and I fear that I’m always picking the wrong ones.
This is all to say: Yes, I’m coming to Australia in September. No, I don’t want our first meeting to be an awkward airport hug, although I have always wanted someone to hold up a sign with my name on it at an airport. Doing anything September 7? You don’t even have to hold up a sign. You can just stand there with a flower in your lapel. Or not. Can we plan a time to Viddle before then? I have to look up the time difference. I’m in US Central time. I work most days (I’m a carny! That is, I run a ride at a children’s amusement park called Haunted Hollow), so evening (my time) is best. Unless that doesn’t work for you. Maybe you’re out every night with your band. What’s your band called? What kind of music do you play? It feels like I could write a message with two thousand questions. Maybe we should send each other multiple-choice quizzes to break the ice. Or those notes we used to send as little kids.
Do you like me? Check the box:
Yes
No
You smell
Did you do that in Australia, too? That sounded ignorant. Like, oh, do you have paper and pens in Australia, too?
I’m going to stop typing before it makes you not want to write me back.
Good night (here at least. So, maybe good morning?).
Agatha
There seems very little chance that I’ll sleep tonight. I do a search to figure out the time difference between Chicago and Melbourne. Seventeen hours. What an awkward number. At least it’s a prime. Because that makes all the difference. And now I’m starting to have that wacky late-night brain that thinks about prime numbers even though I’ve never given two shits about prime numbers in my entire life, even when my math teacher, Mr. Stubbs, gave us that prime-number assignment where we had to come up with prime numbers in our daily lives. I wish I could call him up right now and tell him, “Hey! Mr. Stubbs! I have the perfect prime number for you. It’s the time difference between Chicago and Melbourne, Australia. That means that since it’s two a.m. here in Chicago it’s seven p.m. in Melbourne. Bye, Mr. Stubbs! Take care of that gout!”
I try sleeping, but every time I’m about to fall asleep I feel the urge to check my computer to see if Hendrix wrote back. At three a.m. I convince myself to only check for messages on the hour. I even manage to fall asleep for a solid twenty-three minutes before my biological clock (is that what keeps waking me up?) alerts me that it is 4:02, and I am well past my four o’clock message-checking time.
I blink at the screen, my sleep-deprived eyes blurring at the overly bright pixels.
And there it is. Written at 8:57 p.m. Hendrix time (3:57 a.m. my time).
Agatha,
Chatting sounds good. We should wear something identifiable, so we know it’s us. I’ll have a white carnation on my lapel.
(I hope you know I’m kidding. You were kidding, right? Part of the problem with messages, I guess.)
Does tomorrow night at 8:00 your time (1:00—next day—my time) work for you? Actually, I guess it would be later today for you. Sixteen hours from now. I’m writing this at 9:00 p.m. my time, so 4:00 a.m. your time. Holy fuck this is confusing.
L
et me know. Do I call you? You call me? Chapbook chat okay?
Have a good day at work, carny.
Hendrix
I want to message him back immediately. I want to chat with him immediately. I want to sit on his lap and kiss his neck and contemplate prime numbers with him this very instant.
Instead, I attempt to sleep the paltry three hours I have left before I must get up for work. Two hours is the best I can do.
In the shower I shave my legs and armpits, as though Hendrix Cutter and I will not be sharing a video call but will actually be meeting face-to-face and there is a possibility he will want to touch my silky-smooth legs and armpits.
I dash off a quick message to Hendrix before I leave.
Eight my time, one yours—the next day!—sounds great. Call me? See you later!
I spend my drive berating myself for how casual my message sounded, then regret how uncool it was. Damn me and my exclamation points! No turning back now.
Daydreams about our impending conversation fill my workday. What if we don’t hit it off? What if he’s not as cute as he is in his picture? What if he doesn’t think I’m attractive? What if we have nothing to talk about?
At lunch, conversation turns into a debate on what I should wear.
“As little as possible, obviously,” Adam advises. I glare at him. “What? You’re trying to hook the guy, right? You got the perfect ammo right there.” Adam points his fork in the most predictable direction.
“May I remind you that I already punched you once this summer, and I will not hesitate to do it again.”
“Why not show a little cleavage?” Jerry B. agrees. “Boys are stupid and easy.”
“I don’t want my boy to be stupid and easy. I want him to be interesting and funny and able to look me in the eyes when we’re talking.”
“So wear a muumuu.” Adam sounds annoyed.
“Can I borrow something from your mom?” I crack.
The longest afternoon in history passes second by second, as children enter and exit the Devil’s Dinghies in slow motion. I’m ready to power out of the park at six p.m. on the nose, but the guests are particularly poky today. I nearly screamed at that dad who brought his daughter to the Dinghies at 5:58 and said, as though I have nothing else to do with my time, “One more ride won’t hurt, right?” It will after I beat your face, mister!
Finally, at 6:42 p.m. I am in my car and on the road. Two road-blocking accidents later (assholes! Your shitty driving is getting in the way of my destiny!), I walk in the door of my house at 7:37. That is not enough time to take a shower and blow-dry my hair. I don’t want to look like a wet dog on my first interaction with Hendrix Cutter. I opt for washing my face, brushing out my hair so it rests semigloriously on my shoulders, and changing into my mom’s old Monkees tee. It seems fitting the shirt I wore the first day I read Hendrix Cutter’s name will be the first shirt he sees me in. I examine myself in the mirror and try to determine if the thin fabric is too sheer for a first meeting. I decide it’s okay, particularly because the light in a VidChat isn’t going to capture everything perfectly anyway, and also because fact: I have large breasts. He’s heard about them already anyway. If he is my MTB, he will be happy I have them. Not in a slithery, Adam-ogling way, but in an appreciative way that one’s partner (hee hee) has for their partner’s body parts.
I settle in front of my laptop. 7:57. I think about the days leading up to this moment. The years. Before the Naming, when our dolls married each other for no reason other than whose hair matched best. After the Naming, when there was so much speculation about the what and the how and the why. I turned eighteen, and Hendrix Cutter’s name was there, on my chest, over my heart. I wanted none of this, yet here I am bursting with anticipation. It could all be for nothing, merely a short romance or a friendship that fizzles when one loses interest. Or it could be everything: love, family, future, life.
I am choosing to do this. I am building my life, and I will live with it.
The Chapbook VidChat rings, and my heart leaps, then pounds rapidly underneath his name. I take my yoga breath, and click to answer.
A boy with short brown hair and dark green eyes, freckles, and an off-center nose looks at me on my screen. Whoever he sees looking back at him makes him smile, then laugh, with what appears to be both happiness and nerves.
“Hi…” is all I manage to get out.
“Hi,” he replies, and there’s his beautiful Australian accent.
“I’m Agatha Abrams,” I introduce myself because it seems like the right, if absurd, thing to do.
“Hi, Agatha Abrams. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pauses and looks down to fumble with something. I study every movement, as if they will tell me what I want to know about this fabled creature. He directs his eyes back at the camera, blinks twice, and pronounces, “I’m Hendrix Cutter.”
Acknowledgments
(True) Love and appreciation go out to the following:
Becky/Rebecca for introducing me to fan fiction,
Brian and John for their amusement park expertise and countless entertaining meals,
Caroline for the amazing outline of all things Six Flags,
Mike for the brilliant idea of six years and lots of analysis,
Jim for the friendship, support, and French fries,
Lish for being such a great writer, reader, and friend,
Allyx for the discussion of sexy names,
My very first beta readers: Kara and Liz,
My SPNFamily: Kris, Katie, and Mishka,
Jean, Liz, Anna, Rich, and all of my Feiwel and Friends family,
My wonderful agent, Rosemary,
Mom, always, and
Matt, Romy, and Dean, who are so special they get their names at the beginning and end of my book.
Follow us on Facebook or visit us online at mackids.com.
Our Books are Friends for Life
About the Author
Julie Halpern is the author of several books, including Meant to Be, Maternity Leave, and Don’t Stop Now. Prior to her life as full-time mom and author, Julie was a school librarian. In her imaginary spare time, she enjoys traveling, watching television for grown-ups, and eating baked goods. Julie lives in the Chicago suburbs with her husband, author and illustrator Matthew Cordell, and their two children. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Feiwel & Friends ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A Feiwel
and Friends Book
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
MEANT TO BE. Copyright © 2017 by Julie Halpern. All rights reserved.
Our books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
ISBN 978-1-250-09498-8 (hardcover) / ISBN 978-1-250-09499-5 (ebook)
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
First edition, 2017
eISBN 9781250094995
fiercereads.com
*actual page from one of my mom’s chapbooks