Every Other Weekend

by Abigail Johnson

  “No,” she said. “Not like that.” She gazed at me, her eyes flicking fast back and forth between mine. “All my life I’ve wanted to change things, to make them perfect and safe and unreal, because my reality was a mess. But I’ve never done that with you. I’ve never needed to. I want this still somewhat dark hallway with the laugh track from somebody’s TV drifting through the walls. I want the thin carpet and the weird smell from whoever burned microwave popcorn earlier. And I don’t care about camera angles so long as I get to see any part of you.” Her fingers dug into my shirt before inching up to brush my jaw. “Adam, I never needed a movie with you, because when you love someone—and I can say it now a million times if you want—it’s already perfect.”

  I tasted her tears when she brought her trembling lips to mine, sweeter than any apple pie, and then felt the whoosh of air when my arms locked tight around her ribs. My heart thundered, and I didn’t care about the blood that was no doubt rushing to my face.

  And she was laughing against my mouth, kissing me, then pulling back long enough to meet my gaze before kissing me again.

  I brushed her cheek dry with my thumb when she finally pulled away, and I couldn’t help grinning at her like an idiot.

  She smiled and dropped her forehead against mine. “You gonna make that face every time we kiss?”

  “Oh, this isn’t for the kiss. I think I just proved who’ll be crying at the airport when we both leave for college.”

  Jolene’s whole body shook when she laughed. “My money’s still on you, but I guess we’ll see.”

  * * *

  That was the last time I kissed Jolene in the Oak Village apartment building. But I did kiss her at her new apartment after watching the first of many movies with the famous Mrs. Cho, and at my house the next week when she helped me with the dishes after dinner with my whole family. And at Jeremy’s awful play, where she and Erica were not only civil to each other but actually made plans for all of us to go on a double date. And at Venomous Squid’s show the next month. And a million times after that.

  If I’m lucky, I’ll be kissing Jolene for the rest of my life.

  Jolene would say “I guess we’ll see.”

  I’m saying I feel lucky.

  Jolene’s Essay

  My name is Jolene Timber, and I’m a filmmaker.

  I’m not an aspiring filmmaker. I am one now, presently, currently. I was a filmmaker long before I picked up a camera.

  When I was little and my parents were fighting, I’d change the story in my head. When I watched my mom yelling at my dad for the cliché lipstick marks she’d found on his collar while he poured himself a drink and told her she knew where the door was, I’d rewrite the story, reframe the shot, even rescore the music I could hear in my head. Sometimes it wasn’t lipstick that she found on his collar; sometimes it was blood, and before she could ask him about it, a gunshot would shatter the window behind her and I’d slow the frame rate down to catch her hair blowing as the bullet whizzed past, and then I’d rush it back to normal speed as my dad tackled her before a second shot fired. They’d both be breathless, staring at each other from the ground as an incongruously happy song played in the background, something from a kids’ show on the TV that I’d left on. He’d spin and pull a gun from his jacket, taking out the assassin that had been sent to kill our whole family, while my mother ran to shield my body with her own.

  Maybe it’s not the most original idea, but I think I was around eight when I mentally shot that film. I’ve developed some since then, as you’ll see in my included short films. My point is that I’ve been making films since I first understood that, if I didn’t like a story, I could change it. I could make my father the hero instead of the cheater, my mother the protector instead of the woman who saw me watching from the top of the stairs and baited him until he blamed me for his many affairs. I could cut the scenes I didn’t like and reshoot the ones I did. I could light them, edit them, control them until they were exactly what I wanted them to be. And when I discovered that I could do that for an audience and not just to escape a reality that I wanted to deny, that was when I began making the films that I’d only ever imagined before.

  I thought they would all reflect the lifelong need that I’ve felt to escape, that the stories and feelings I wanted to create would be antidotes to my own life, but that’s not how I feel anymore, and those aren’t the only films I want to make.

  I’d be lying if I said I’ve fully abandoned retelling my own stories. As long as I live with either of my parents, it’s what I have to do. Maybe even after that. I don’t know. I do know that I want more. I deserve more.

  I want to tell love stories that maybe end as broken and as messy as they started. And ones that end happy and hopeful, as the girl realizes that happily-ever-after isn’t just a silver screen fantasy. And I want to adapt books—one in particular, but I have to wait for him to write it first.

  Whether you accept me into your program or not—and you should—I have to make movies, so I will. Other people have to eat and breathe, but I have to make movies. I have to tell stories, because I can’t live any other way.

  My name is Jolene Timber, and I’m a filmmaker.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Even If I Fall by Abigail Johnson.

  Author Note

  Jolene’s story, though fictional, is true for too many people. On average, there are 321,500 victims (age twelve or older) of rape and sexual assault each year in the United States. Or to put it another way, every ninety-eight seconds, another person experiences sexual assault. The term sexual assault refers to sexual contact or behavior that occurs without the explicit consent of the victim. Out of every one thousand sexual assaults, 310 are reported to the police, and of those cases, 93 percent of juvenile victims knew the perpetrator.

  If you need help or need to talk to someone, RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), the nation’s largest anti-sexual-violence organization, operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline, which offers free, confidential help and information 24/7 by phone (800-656-HOPE) and online (rainn.org and rainn.org/es).

  Acknowledgments

  People often ask me where the ideas for my books come from and my answer is always different: a single scene that popped into my head of a girl sitting on her roof at night talking to the older boy next door (If I Fix You), or an article about a DNA test that accidentally revealed an unknown sibling (The First to Know), or a simple prompt to write a summer love story that, to me, needed to involve a girl falling for the brother of her brother’s murder victim (Even If I Fall).

  Every Other Weekend was inspired by an old episode of The Wonder Years where Kevin falls for a girl he meets on vacation and then has to leave her behind when he comes home. I started wondering about what it might have been like if they’d continued to see each other regularly, but briefly, and forged a relationship that was separate from their “real” lives back home. Adam and Jolene’s story evolved radically from that inspiration—they always do—and there are so many people who helped me along the way.

  My agent, Kim Lionetti. Thank you for your unwavering faith in me and for your willingness to let me run with this story in particular.

  My editor, Natashya Wilson. I think this has been our most challenging book to date because it’s essentially two books, Adam’s story and Jolene’s story, combined into one. I love how fiercely you loved Jolene from the start and how you completely fell for Adam, but more than that, I love how hard you pushed me to make this book do them justice.

  Thank you to the phenomenally hardworking team at Inkyard Press and HarperCollins, including Gigi Lau for art direction and Marissa Korda for the spectacular cover art and design (the pigeons are EVERYTHING!), Justine Sha, Brittany Mitchell, Stephanie Choo, Chris Wolfgang, Ingrid Dolan, Shara Alexander, Linette Kim, Bress Braswell, Andrea Pappenheimer, Heather Foy, and the entire Harper
Children’s sales team.

  To my longtime critique partners, Sarah Guillory and Kate Goodwin, and to my Pitch Wars mentee turned critique partner, Rebecca Rode. Sarah and Kate, you guys have read this book in so many different forms and you told me which parts were crap even as you cheered me on to fix them. Best. CPs. Ever. And, Rebecca, I can’t wait to start inflicting, I mean sharing, future first drafts with you.

  To my sister Mary Groen, who has asked me weekly for the past six years when this book was going to be ready because it was her favorite. The answer is now, today. Because of you.

  To my sister Rachel and my brother Sam. Thanks for giving me so many good sibling stories to draw from.

  To my parents, Gary and Suzanne Johnson. It is the greatest privilege of my life to make you proud.

  To my family, Jill, Ross, Ken, Rick and Jeri, the Depew family, and my honorary brother Nate. I love you all so much.

  To all my nieces and nephews, Grady (thanks for giving me the best band name ever), Rory, Sadie, Gideon, Ainsley, Ivy, Dexter, and Os. I have finally written all of you into one of my books! You’re now contractually obligated to say I’m your favorite aunt for eternity.

  Thank you to my longtime friend and police officer, Laura Cervantes, for all of your help with certain aspects of this story. Any mistakes are my own.

  To everyone who asked for more Daniel, thanks for letting me step back into his life a little. If you haven’t already and you want to read more about him, his story continues in If I Fix You.

  I thank God for all the people who’ve read my books and told their friends about them, posted reviews, shared on social media, or written me letters. I wouldn’t be able to do this amazing job without you. Thank you.

  Even If I Fall

  by Abigail Johnson

  Chapter 1

  The car jolts back and forth, rocking Maggie and me along with it before stalling. Again. My nostrils flare and I dig my baby blue–painted nails into the steering wheel. Calm as you please, I pull the keys from the ignition, roll down the window and hurl them into the field of wild grass growing along the side of Boyer Road, less than a stone’s throw from the base of my long dirt driveway.

  “Feel better?” Maggie’s mirrored sunglasses show me that the question is rhetorical. My left eye is twitching and the dimple in my chin has never been more prominent. I try to relax my jaw as I tuck the dark brown strands of my not-quite-shoulder-length hair behind my ears, but my reflection doesn’t change much. With the window open and the A/C off, there is no ignoring the sauna-like June heat rolling in as the sun reaches the height of the day. It’s the kind of hot and muggy that wrings every drop of moisture—and optimism—from my body, leaving me limp and heavy in the steamy afternoon air.

  “This is an evil car and it hates me.”

  “No, not Daphne.” My friend and self-appointed driving instructor gives the dash a little pat.

  “Why did I give her such a cute name?” I eye Daphne, aka the navy Camaro from hell. I’ve owned my first car for three days and have barely driven her as many miles. “I should start calling her Jezebel.”

  “Call her whatever you like but you still have to learn to drive stick.”

  “I’m trying.” I lean forward to yell directly into the air vent. “I will be so good to you if you just stop stalling every two seconds!”

  “You’re lifting your foot off the clutch too soon.”

  “I know.” I collapse back against my seat.

  “So stop it.”

  I can hear the grin in Maggie’s voice before I turn my head to look at her. Yeah, she’s enjoying this. “You said learning to drive stick would be fun, that I’d have it down in an hour. We’ve been at this all morning and I’m pretty sure I’m getting worse.”

  “You’re not going to get any better without the keys, Brooke.”

  With a sigh, I push open my door and cross the single lane dirt road. The thigh-high grass skims the hem of my faded blue sundress as I search the open field. Fortunately, the keys have a ridiculously large fuzzy keychain in the shape of an ice skate on them—my new-car present from Maggie—so they aren’t hard to find.

  “Who has a stupid keychain now?”

  Turning back, I see she’s crawled over the console and is resting her forearms on the driver’s side open window. “I never said stupid, I said interesting.”

  Maggie bursts out laughing. “You’re always so polite. Is that a West Texas thing or a Covington thing?”

  “Worried it’s catching?” I ask with a faux scowl.

  Maggie pulls the collar of her sleeveless watermelon-print shirt up to her chin and hunches her shoulders. “It better not be. If I start calling anybody ma’am, I’m moving back to LA.”

  “It’s not my home or my family. I just don’t see the sense in being rude for no reason.” I let my gaze travel back to Daphne. “But that’s with people, not cars.” A smile alights on my face. “Hey, you think there’s something wrong with her and not me?”

  Maggie raises an eyebrow—well, I think she raises an eyebrow. Her aviators cover half her rather small face, so it’s hard to tell. She plucks the keys from my hand while fully moving into the driver’s seat. A second later I’m left choking on a dust cloud as she speeds a few hundred yards down the dirt road, executes an action-movie-worthy U-turn, and drives back. She’s grinning as she slows next to me.

  “Guess it’s not the car.”

  “Not fair. Didn’t you tell me your dad is a professional stunt driver?”

  “Professional stunt driver, professional cheater and liar.” She lifts one hand then the other as though she’s weighing the two options. “He is a man of many talents.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I feel like I’ve known Maggie my whole life instead of just a couple weeks, so I keep forgetting that there’s still a lot she hasn’t shared with me.

  Maggie dismisses my apology with a wave of her hand then lifts her sunglasses into her pink-tinted hair, which exactly matches the double-winged liner on her eyes. She’s definitely raising her eyebrows now. “If we’re talking about fair, ask me how I feel watching you do quintuple silk-cow jumps around me when I can barely skate backward.”

  “Salchow jumps, and they were only doubles. Plus, you’re getting so much better.”

  “Says the girl my mom literally offered to pay to be my friend.”

  “She offered to pay me for ice-skating lessons.” While I needed the money—we live on the outskirts of town and gas to and from anywhere isn’t cheap—it turned out what I really needed was someone whose eyes wouldn’t shade with pity or scorn whenever they looked at me. “Besides, I think we can both agree you’re the one paying now.” I eye the hand rubbing her neck. I’ve been jerking us around for hours trying to tame Daphne.

  Maggie tries not to smile. “You know my mom would have paid you twice what she offered. She’s convinced I’m turning into some kind of recluse who only talks to the camera when I’m filming YouTube tutorials. She only really likes the Korean beauty videos I make, but I’m half American too. Anyway, I’m just glad the first person I met turned out to be as amazing off the ice as she is on it. One less thing she can nag me about, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, ignoring the queasy flip in my stomach as she opens the door for me and slides back into the passenger seat.

  “All right, enough stalling.” She mimes a rim shot to go along with her pun. “Everybody does it when learning to drive stick. Suck it up and get back in the car.”

  I try, I really do, but before my butt even hits the seat, I’m grabbing the gearshift like it’s a bull ready to buck me off. Not that I’ve ever ridden a bull—we may live in cattle country but the empty acres around my family’s farmhouse are purely ornamental—but the idea is starting to look a lot less daunting in comparison.

  “Do you remember the most important rule of driving stick?”
/>   I nod, buckling my seat belt. “Don’t confuse the clutch for the brake pedal.”

  “No—cars can sense fear.”

  I slide my gaze toward my friend and watch her grin at me.

  “Are you thinking about punching me in the boob?”

  She knows I would never admit to something like that out loud, but the reluctant smile inching onto my face gives me away.

  “Joke’s on you.” Grinning wider, Maggie twists to face me and pushes her chest out. “Flat as a board, baby. Who’s laughing now, besides every boy ever?”

  Both of us, apparently. It takes way too long for my composure to return enough to start the car again. I don’t even mind that it stalls the first time. Or the second. I manage not to stall on my third try, but Daphne is jerking us around so much that it’s a hollow victory.

  You can drive from one end of town to the other in ten minutes, but I’m not ready to face even those few stoplights and intersections, so we stick to the back roads on the outskirts of town near my house, where traffic is practically nonexistent. The only other vehicle we’ve encountered is a truck pulled onto the side of Pecan Road, its driver nowhere to be seen. Not that I’m paying much attention to anything but the gearshift growing sweaty in my palm and the stop sign looming ahead. I could roll through it, except I know I won’t. So I downshift and come to a full and legal stop. Beside me, Maggie says nothing. I know what to do; it’s the execution that keeps tripping me up. I still don’t understand how I can be so good with my feet in one area and so awful in another.