The boy looks away now, the smile gone.
I do a short reading and the Q&A without any more slipups. The signing is uneventful, too—until I look up to see the boy standing in front of me, copies of Girl in the Afterworld and Between Two Worlds on the table.
I feel myself flush, though I’m not sure why. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. He has piercing light green eyes and I can’t quite read his expression. I squirm in my seat, smoothing my dress across my legs, waiting for him to speak first.
“It’s for my sister,” he says finally, smiling. Of course that’s all this is. He wouldn’t want me to think he’s actually interested in Marigold.
“Don’t worry.” I reach for the books. “I had a feeling you weren’t a rabid superfan.” He laughs, and I feel myself start to relax. “What’s her name?”
“Emma.”
“Where is Emma tonight then?” I ask, my pen starting to glide across the title page of the first book.
“She’s, uh…been pretty sick. She was hoping she’d be well enough to make it tonight, but it didn’t work out.” I pause mid-signature and look up at him. He’s watching me, frowning, but he shakes it off when he sees me notice. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy tears that happened when my parents told her she wasn’t allowed to come. She’s had a calendar going for the last hundred days, crossing off every date to count down to this. Just so you know, Emma Flynn may very well be your most enthusiastic fan in the universe.”
I glance down, unable to look him in the eyes now.
“Well, then, that makes up for Brother Flynn being less than ardent,” I joke, hoping to change the subject. He’d seemed too cool, too hard at first glance, dressed in all black, that wry smile that had made me itch to prove him wrong—I wasn’t prepared for the conversation to turn so personal. But I should know better than anyone that appearances can be deceiving.
“Oliver. Though Brother Flynn has a nice ring to it. Sounds kind of medieval.”
I finish autographing the second book and put down my pen. This one got a personal message: Feel better soon, Emma. I look forward to meeting you next time.
There has to be one next time in Philly for the final book.
“Well, Oliver, I hope this wasn’t too painful for you. Tell Emma she’s lucky to have such a selfless brother.”
“Not painful at all,” he says, shoving the books into his messenger bag. “Not my usual Wednesday-night entertainment, but that’s okay. I mean, it’s pretty wild that you’re—what, seventeen? My age? And you’ve already written two books? Wow. I feel like such a pathetic underachiever standing next to you.”
Of all the things fans say to me, this is the worst. Especially coming from someone my own age. They compare themselves, and of course they fall short. Don’t feel bad! I’m not really better than you! I want to scream. I’m worse, actually. I’m a total impostor.
I glance behind him at the long line of people still waiting for signatures, hoping he gets my hint.
Oliver takes a step back, but he’s studying me again with those green eyes. I don’t know what he’s trying to see.
“Well, thanks again, Thistle. Hopefully you’ll meet Emma someday.” He’s turning toward the door when he abruptly stops, grabs my pen. He pulls a promotional flyer with my face printed on it from the stack at the end of the table and flips it over, scrawling for a few seconds.
“What’s this?” I ask as he slides the paper and pen over to me.
“I know you’re superbusy, but—if you ever have a free minute—it would make Em’s day to hear from you. She’s not doing so great, but every good thing helps, you know? No problem if you can’t,” he says, backing away. “The signed books are already awesome.”
I nod and look down at the paper. Emma’s name and e-mail address, in neat capital letters, so there’s no possibility of me misspelling. If I were to actually e-mail, that is. I fold it up and slip it into my canvas bag with the extra pens and water bottles at my feet. I wonder what’s wrong with her, and I start to open my mouth to ask, but Oliver is gone when I look up.
Then I see Liam watching me from the back of the room, and I smile. He smiles back.
And I forget about everything else.
four
Marigold kept returning to the old house, and, from there, the Afterworld. The more time she spent exploring that impossible skyscraper with Colton—desperately hoping her mom was there—the more she was certain of one thing. She couldn’t let herself fall for him.
As alive as Colton seemed in the Afterworld, Marigold knew he wasn’t really alive. He had been, though, only a few months ago. He’d been riding his bike down Broad Street in Philly, following his twin brother, Jonah, when a ninety-year-old man had a heart attack behind the steering wheel and plowed through a red light, hitting one of the quickly moving bicycles.
Of all the dead boys there might be, she found one who’d lived a short train ride away from her house in the suburbs. But Colton still looked real, sounded real, felt real—she’d brushed against him, and he definitely was not vapor. He would probably taste real, too.
But that…No, she wouldn’t let herself kiss him. There was only one person who mattered, only one person she needed to find.
Her mom.
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 1: GIRL IN THE AFTERWORLD
I strip off my beautiful dress as soon as I’m back in my bedroom, hanging it on my closet door and smoothing out the soft tulle skirt.
Susan and Elliot had surprised Dad and me with dinner plans after I finished signing. Liam and I didn’t have a moment alone before they’d swept us away to a fancy restaurant with tiny portions and huge prices, where they regaled Dad and me with Lemonade Skies updates until just after midnight.
It’s too late now. Liam’s lights are already off.
I put on pajamas—Harry Potter again, because everything else is still packed in my tour suitcase—and settle into bed with my laptop and a handful of iced gingersnaps. They’re not my favorite cookies. I mean, no chocolate? But they’re Marigold’s obsession, which is why Elliot and his boss, Martin Davis—head of Zenith Children’s Group—had them delivered to our door this morning to welcome us home from the tour. But my dinner was nearly microscopic, so even gingersnaps sound excellent now.
I skim over my e-mails, flip through social media. There are easily hundreds of alerts—tags, private messages, fan photos. I stand up and snap my laptop shut, set it on the dresser. Lately, when Liam’s not over, I spend my nights searching through college websites. I’ve already made a list of the colleges I want to apply to, a handful of Ivies and some more mid-list schools, too, all over the country, even a few abroad. I had considered adding University of Pennsylvania, my mom’s alma mater, but that was quickly ruled out. I need a break from Philly. Liam and I joke about going to the same college—though I’m only partly kidding, because it’s hard to imagine a life that doesn’t involve Liam by my side. Otherwise I have no clue where I really want to go, what I want to do, but that’s not what matters. It’s just the idea of it. The freedom. I could go to California, or Massachusetts, or Texas. I could go to London if I wanted, Sydney, Florence—Dad tells me I can go anywhere. I’ve earned it, he says.
And that is the one Lemonade Skies perk I can’t deny: the money. I’m not strong enough or principled enough to refuse that, not when it comes to college. My getaway. What started as a way to save our house and pay off some bills went way beyond all expectations. We could buy five houses now, each nicer and newer than this one. But only this one was Mom’s.
I’m too exhausted tonight, though, to think about the future. I lie down on top of my blankets, ignoring the stack of books on my nightstand—advance copies from other YA authors who want me to give them a blurb, bless them with the Thistle Tate golden seal of approval. My dad politely declines most requests on my behalf, only letting through a few judiciousl
y selected stars on the rise—we don’t want to dilute our brand, he says—but I still end up reading most of the books anyway. Books, my best friends and my worst enemies.
I lean back against my pillows and close my eyes, crunching on a cookie. Gingersnaps are way too hard. More like biscotti than cookies. Why did Dad choose them as Marigold’s favorite? He certainly didn’t consult me on that particular detail. Unless…were gingersnaps my mom’s favorite cookie? Is that why my dad picked them?
I’m her daughter, and I don’t even know what her favorite kind of cookie was. Or maybe she didn’t even like cookies—maybe she loved salty more than sweet, potato chips more than chocolate bars. There are so many little things I don’t know about her. Little things that add up to big things.
I push the question away and reach for another cookie, my brain replaying the night, and it comes back to me now, a fresh sting, what Dad said to Susan and Elliot: something new. There won’t be anything new. Not ever. Dad promised.
I bite angrily into my gingersnap just as I hear a thump against the window.
A Ping-Pong ball. Liam.
He is awake.
I crawl out of bed and run to the window. I tap twice and Liam points to my backyard.
I’m wearing Snoopy slippers and covered in Quidditch accessories again and my makeup is washed off, but it doesn’t matter. I step out into the hallway and see that my dad’s bedroom door is shut and there’s no light on. I tiptoe down the stairs, stopping for just a minute outside the office, listening to Lucy’s guttural snore. It’s a completely awful sound: wheeze, gurgle, wheeze, gurgle. She yelps sometimes, too, sharp squeals as her legs kick, running through the air, a happy puppy again in her dreams. The snoring I got used to, but those yelps would wake me up when she slept in my room.
I keep moving down the hallway, through the kitchen. I grab my coat from the hook and wrap it around me.
“Hey,” I say, stepping outside, closing the door softly behind me. Liam is sitting on the brick wall that separates our yards, his legs dangling on our side, just above my patch of garden. The moon is only a fragile crescent tonight, so it’s dark back here.
“What’s up?” I take a deep breath, trying to force my face into an expression that looks suitably calm. I can’t be sure without a mirror, but I’m most likely failing horribly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says quietly, kicking off the wall to stand, barely missing my lavender plants. “And I saw your light was on. Wild night out with your publishing crew?”
“So wild,” I say, walking across the patio. “My dad offered me champagne! I said no, though, tempting as it was to erase my mind a bit. I don’t want to end up hating champagne like I hate sparkling apple juice.”
It’s an ugly memory, and I wish I hadn’t reminded us both of it now.
“Yeah. Well…I’ll smuggle over a bottle of bubbles sometime. We can swig it together out here. That way, whenever you drink it for the rest of your life, you’ll think of me.”
That sounds potentially very romantic.
“And,” Liam continues, “even if you puke it up all over the garden, it can’t be worse than when you got sick at Disney World. Nothing could scare me away after that.”
Less romantic, maybe.
“Gross,” I say, shaking my head. But then I look at Liam straight on. “That reminds me of your notes. I didn’t say thank-you before. So…thank you. Seriously. It was the only good part about being away.”
He’s stepping toward me, stepping until he’s right in front of me. His arms are wrapped around his chest, shivering. It’s cold out tonight, and I notice suddenly that he’s in his pajamas, too—ratty sweatpants and an unzipped Phillies hoodie over his decade-old Reading Rainbow T-shirt, which only still fits because it was more of a dress when his mom first bought it for him. I had made fun of him endlessly, but he’d insisted on wearing it anyway. He even wore it to 7-Eleven once when we went to get Slurpees, just to prove that he wasn’t embarrassed. It was his favorite show, after all, and his favorite color, neon green. It’s tight against him now, finally. It looks just right.
“What are you grinning about?” he asks. He’s smiling, too.
“That god-awful shirt.”
“Huh. Well, do you want to go next door and ask Mrs. Rizzo which of us is more likely to win a beauty pageant right now? Because I feel pretty confident that my sweet vintage Reading Rainbow shirt will beat out your mangy Harry Potter flannel any day.”
Mrs. Rizzo lives in the other house next to mine and she’s not my biggest fan. She’s no one’s fan, really. Well, except for my dad’s. She comes by at least once a month, wearing her pink housecoat embroidered with blue-and-white parakeets, to bring him a tin full of bird-shaped shortbread cookies. Each one is covered in a different color of sugar crystal. I call them her fowl cookies, although I’ve never actually eaten one. Otherwise, Mrs. Rizzo is mostly known for keeping tabs on the neighborhood from a bright yellow lawn chair on her front porch.
“We probably don’t even have to go over to ask,” I say. “She might be spying on us from her bedroom window.”
“Solid point. So in that case,” Liam says, “we should make her evening more interesting. Don’t you think?”
Liam steps in front of me, studying my face. He’s only a few inches taller than me to begin with, and he’s leaning down now, so close there’s barely more than a finger’s width of space between us.
“Oh?” I whisper. I’m numb suddenly, stunned, watching Liam as if this exact moment hadn’t occurred to me a thousand times before. A million, maybe. As much as I wanted it to happen, I don’t think I actually believed that it would. Liam’s lips, my lips. Together. Kissing.
Liam hovers just in front of me. I realize he’s waiting for me, to make sure I want this as much as he does.
I’ve fallen into him, my lips on his, before I’ve even made the conscious decision to move, my body knowing before my brain that THIS IS IT, THISTLE. This is your moment.
Thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-, sixteen-year-old Thistles would all be dying right now.
Seventeen-year-old Thistle is dying, too.
He gently touches my back, pulling me even closer, and my arms find their way around his neck—so naturally, smoothly, as if it’s not weird at all that this is happening. We might as well have been in this exact place a hundred times before.
And the best part, I think, as I smell cinnamon gum and Old Spice and the winter pine soap that his mom has in every bathroom, always, a scent I’d recognize anywhere—is that he knows the truth.
He knows the truth, and he wants me anyway.
* * *
I wake up grinning, and it takes me a few seconds before I can remember why. As soon as I do—Liam!—I shoot out of bed, blankets exploding into a heap on my floor. I run to the window, pulling my curtain aside to look at his window. Of course he’s not home. It’s Thursday morning, and he has water polo practice before school.
I realize now that we didn’t actually make any plans after he finally pulled away, giving me one last peck on the nose before saying good night. But it’s Liam. I see him pretty much every day. We have our Ping-Pong balls. We don’t have to do anything as formal as arranging a time to go out on a date. Date.
I take more time than usual getting ready, showering and braiding part of my hair into a headband, pinning the rest of my wet curls into a loose bun. I scour my closet for a long time, realizing that far too many of my clothes fall into one of two categories: fancy dresses and skirts and blouses for tours and appearances, yoga pants and hoodies for every other kind of day. I go for black yoga pants that technically could be leggings if you don’t study them too closely, and a light gray wool sweater that is the only thing my dad saved for me from my mom’s closet. I’ve never worn it outside my room. I was waiting until I grew into it, and then when I finally did, it still didn’t feel right to actually
wear it. I hate the idea of overwashing it, ruining it somehow. Losing some last trace of her that could still possibly linger.
But today is a special day. If my mom were here, I’d want us to be close enough that I could tell her everything about last night. Liam, the kiss, finally.
Wearing her sweater is the best I can do.
I head downstairs and find my dad in the kitchen, flipping a pancake. I pause, surprised. We don’t make breakfast. I mean, we pour cereal and milk into a bowl or microwave some oatmeal. A toaster strudel is about as elaborate as it gets. But there’s already a pan of bacon set off to the side, and a bottle of maple syrup on the counter.
He turns to greet me, spatula in hand, smiling big. But his face instantly falls.
“That sweater.”
“I’m sorry—” I start, already turning back toward the stairs to change.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. Keep it on. Please. I love that sweater. I gave it to your mom for her fortieth birthday.”
Her last birthday.
“I’m glad you’re wearing it.” Dad looks like he wants to ask me more, but he doesn’t. He turns back to the pancakes.
I ask an obvious question instead. “What’s the special occasion? It smells delicious in here.” I move closer to the stove, leaning in to pick a piece of hot bacon from the pan. There are even chocolate chips in the pancakes. I can’t remember the last time we had them. But now, standing in this same kitchen, watching Dad at the stove, breathing in the smell of chocolate and batter, I am six years old again.
My dad is my superhero. My best friend.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 4