by Megan Bostic
Life is subjective as far as memories are concerned. I mean, what pieces of your own life do you really remember? Some good times, some bad times definitely, but mostly you remember those times that really stand out, those times that define who you are as an individual. Now's the time my life flashes before me—flickering recollections, vacations, holidays, friendships, the moments that made a difference. Mostly I remember that weekend with Kaylee.
It's almost time to go now. Although I can't see her anymore, I feel my mom's hand holding mine. She stays true to her word and lets me know that it's okay to let go, to move on, to follow the light. She tells me that they'll be okay, she and Dad. They're at my bedside when I die. I feel their constant presence.
When death finally comes, it brings relief, and I hope not just for me, but also for everyone around me. It's time for them to close the Austin chapter of their lives, put it on a shelf, bring it out only when needed, when they want to remember. That's what I want. That's what I worked for that weekend that feels like so long ago but wasn't. I want them to feel peace, joy, and happiness. I want for them what I no longer have myself. Life.
The End
Memories...
Epilogue
Kaylee is in bed, still sleeping when the call comes. It's early, not quite six o'clock, when her mother enters her room. She's holding a shoebox, the box that Austin had given her to pass to Kaylee upon his death. She sits on the edge of Kaylee's bed, tears glistening red, reflecting the light of the digital alarm clock. She sets the box down at Kaylee's feet, and waits. She waits until the right words come to her. How do you tell your daughter that her best friend, the love of her life, is dead? Yes, they were expecting it, but that never makes it any easier, does it?
This is the third time she's had to tell her daughter someone close to her, someone she loves, has died. It won't be easy, it never is. Kaylee was young when her father died, old enough to understand it but maybe not old enough for that loss to fully impact her emotions. Jake's death was difficult. To lose a friend like that, someone you spent just about every waking hour with, someone so full of vitality and life, someone whose death never received justice—it was difficult for her. But this one, this would be the hardest. To lose the person who's like the sun to you, warm and bright and essential to your survival, the person who makes your heart flutter like a million butterfly wings and your pulse race like wild horses, that one person you would give the sky, the sea, your very breath if you could. It's resonant. And her mother knows all too well what it's like to hear that kind of news. She knows it will be the worst pain Kaylee will ever suffer. It will crush her very being, suffocate her. It will leave her hollow.
She doesn't want to do it, but she knows she has to. Putting it off won't make it go away. She puts a hand on Kaylee's shoulder, gives a gentle shake, waits for her to stir.
Kaylee wakes slowly. She hasn't slept much as of late, having gone to Austin's most days before school, and then staying late into the evening afterward. She blinks, stretches, eyes open. "Mom!" she shouts, startled to find her there. She reads her face and knows immediately. "No," she cries. Her mom gathers her in her arms. "No!" she screams, tears streaming down her face. Her mom lets her weep, to let it out as long as she needs to. Kaylee cries herself back to sleep. Mrs. Davis lays her back down gently and leaves her to her dreams.
Waking, Kaylee sits up, sees the box at the foot of her bed. She grabs it, reads the front. It says "To my beautiful Kaylee, from Austin." Tears pour from her eyes. She puts the box back where she found it, stares at it. She's not ready. She showers, dresses, picks up the box again, puts it back down, eats breakfast, brushes her teeth and hair, cries. She picks up the box, needs some air. Cradling the box under her arm, she runs down the stairs, grabs her keys and purse, and heads out the door.
Scarlet roars to life, but Kaylee keeps her still. The name seems dumb to her now. It's just a color, or the protagonist from an old book, or a murder suspect from a board game. Scarlet is not the name for a car. Apple. That's what he wanted. It seemed fitting now. She won't change the name again.
Driving without purpose, Kaylee finds that Apple is guiding her to some of the places she and Austin had visited just weeks prior: Old Town, the waterfront, Point Defiance. She stops at Owen Beach, gets out, walks along the shoreline. She welcomes the cold, stinging wind, imagining it's Austin's spirit walking with her, enveloping her in its, his, chilly embrace.
Kaylee sits on a rock at the far end of the beach near the clay cliffs and watches as the waves crash into the shore. Bringing her knees to her chin, she wraps her arms around herself and weeps once again. When the tears have run their course, she rises, grabs a stick from the beach, approaches the cliffs, and carves "Kaylee Loves Austin" into the cold wet clay. She wonders how long their names will last, and keeps her eyes on them as she walks back down the beach, afraid they will fade as soon as she turns away. As she climbs into her car, her eyes sting, but she puts the Mustang in gear and rolls through the curving wooded roads that lead to the park exit.
Kaylee finds herself driving past Austin's house on her way home. On the outside, everything appears so still, so quiet. She's sure it's different inside, screaming, crying, anguish. The same anguish she feels coursing through her body straight to her core. She wants to stop, but the pain is still so fresh, not just for her, but for Austin's parents. Time. They need time not to have to be strong, time to grieve with abandon.
Continuing home, she realizes she's ready. She immediately climbs the stairs to her room, sits on the floor, and opens the box.
It's stuffed full of memories. Some items she immediately recognizes, some she's never seen before. On top of all that sits an envelope. She opens it and pulls out a letter. She begins to read.
Dear Kaylee,
If you are reading this letter, that must mean I'm not around anymore. I'm so sorry we didn't have more time together. Nine years just didn't seem like enough, did it? I would have liked to date you, marry you someday, have a family, grow old together. I would have liked to be with you forever, but God had other plans for me. Know that I have loved you always, and will continue to love you even in death.
Not to kill the moment, but I have to get down to business. First things first: my funeral. I've left my plans with my parents, but you have to get them to follow them. They'll undoubtedly try to hold some lame cryfest at some stuffy church I've never stepped foot in. That's not what I want. I want a celebration. I want people talking, joking, and laughing. I don't want anyone mourning me.
I want you to give my eulogy. I know it will be hard, because I'm sure you're hurting right now. I know I would be if the shoe was on the other foot. But no one knows me better than you, Kaylee. I don't care what you say, a little, a lot, crying, smiling, laughing, but I want my memory honored in your words, with your voice.
My next order of business is music. My mom will try to play some depressing religious hymns. Don't let her. No dirges. There's one song you must play. Other than that, play what you want. The CD is in the box on top—it's black with the moon on the cover. Track number four is the one I want you to play. That song means a lot to me. Listen to it. You'll understand.
Please DO NOT wear black. Wear pink or green or purple or any other color of the rainbow. Actually, wear blue. You look beautiful in blue. It brings out your eyes. But no black. This is not a sad day. I'm no longer sick, no longer in pain. I'm okay now. I died happy—mostly because of you. :)
And for shit's sake, do not let my parents stick me in a box in the ground. Yuck! I don't want any damn worms crawling through me, eating my flesh. Sorry, that's a bit sick, isn't it? I want my body cremated. They can put a place marker wherever they want, but do NOT let them place me in the cold hard earth. Scatter my ashes on Mount Rainier, up by Comet Falls. You'll have to be sneaky about it, because it's frowned upon. I think it might actually be illegal, but that never stopped you before, right? Kidding. Please make this happen. I want to be up there among the trees and flow
ers, and fresh air, with the water flowing nearby. I want to be a part of that nature I loved, that nature my parents shared with me, and I shared with you.
Now that that's taken care of, back to the box. This box contains items that were important to me, us, our life together. Share them, keep them to yourself, use them as you wish. Many are pictures of our times together, alone, with our friends, at school, during the holidays, on our journeys. There's one of you in there that I LOVE. Jake took it. We're at Owen Beach, your hair is blowing in the wind, and you're looking out over the water. You looked like you were dreaming of some faraway place. I remember wishing I were there with you, inside your head, seeing what you were seeing. Anyway, you were looking out over the water, and there I am just beyond you, staring, gazing really, taking in the beauty and wonder that is you.
If you had seen that picture, you would have known I loved you. Jake did. He knew right away. That asshole held it over my head forever. Made me lend him money all the time or else he'd show you that picture. What a jerk, huh? His mom gave me the picture, and now I'm giving it to you. It's near the top of the box, so you shouldn't have trouble finding it.
There are a couple books in there, my favorites. Catcher in the Rye, Fahrenheit 451, To Kill a Mockingbird, Wuthering Heights, Lord of the Flies. I know you've probably already read them all, but if you happen to read them again, I hope you'll think of me.
I left you all of my indie CDs. My mom will give them to you later. I've placed my favorites in the box. I know you don't like indie now, but I think the more you listen, the more you'll appreciate it. Pay careful attention to the words, the meaning behind them. Try it for me. I mean, you can't live on hip-hop and pop alone. That's just wrong.
My poetry book's also in there. So many of the poems I've written have been inspired by you, or were written for you, so I think it's only right that you should be the one to have it. Share it if you must, but remember how guarded I was about my writ ing. Many of the words in that book were meant for you. I wouldn't mind if you kept it that way, a secret, close to your heart.
The last item is my beloved Cyber-shot. I've not yet downloaded the pictures or video from our journey together, so they're all still in there. Enjoy. I did. It was a beautiful weekend. I would have never forgotten it, and I thank you for that.
All of these items that once belonged to me now belong to you, along with your memories. I don't want you to mourn me, but I wouldn't mind if you thought about me from time to time maybe next time you eat at Frisko, or maybe while you're just driving aimlessly, letting Scarlet guide your way (you should really change her name to Apple by the way), or when you look up toward the night sky. Move on, live your life, Kaylee, but please, never forget me.
Eternally yours, Austin
Kaylee finds the photo, the one Austin spoke of, quickly. He was right; it was obvious. She should have known, even before he told her. She'd felt his gaze on her more than once. She figured she was just being delusional. Maybe she's the one who should have spoken up sooner.
She leafs through the rest of the photos, laughing and crying as she consumes memory after memory made timeless and everlasting through the lens of Austin's camera.
She pulls out the books, one by one, studying their covers. She's read them all but knows she will read them again, because they were his. She tries to decide which she should read first, and settles on the Bronte, the only romance in the bunch.
It's time to look through the CDs. She immediately opens the one he described in his letter. She puts it in her CD player, presses Play, and almost immediately realizes why Austin loved this music so much. So much feeling, so much meaning, it cries out for attention. She'll never listen to music the same way again.
His poetry book, the little spiral notebook with all his inner thoughts and feelings, comes out next. She opens to a random page and begins to read the poem within its lines.
"Stolen Heart"
She shimmers, not unlike the stars.
Gleaming, glimmering, glowing.
She sways, like the ocean waves.
Surging, rushing, rolling.
She's bright, she is the sun.
Blinding, dazzling, stunning.
She floats, quite like the birds.
Climbing, fluttering, soaring.
She's stolen my heart, with her it stays.
Clasping, keeping, owning.
My love is hers and hers is mine.
Falling, twisting, holding.
Crying, she closes the book, holds it to her heart, then lays it down gently on the floor.
Last, she picks up the camera, passes it from hand to hand, turns it, and examines it as if it's a foreign object. Leaning back on her bed, she pushes the power button and scans through the pictures one by one, slowly as to not miss a single detail. She plays each video, over and over, just to see Austin alive and animated again, to hear his voice. She puts everything back into the box, goes to her desk, sits in front of her computer, and sets the box down next to her. Placing her fingers on the keyboard, she begins typing the eulogy of Austin James Parker.
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank—where does one start? I suppose it's only right to thank my mother-in-law, Judy, first. It was after her death that I sat down and wrote my first novel. Through her death I also gained the experience needed to write this story. I've missed her these last nine years.
Next, I need to thank all of those who read the novel and gave me feedback, whether it was blanket ideas or full-on line edits. That would be Jarucia Jaycox Nirula, Debbie Mercer (and Mike Sullivan for bringing us together), Michelle Humphrey, Jay Simons, Chris Brown, Kristen Kendle, Kathy Vinyard, and my niece Lily Galagan, who gave me that teen perspective I so desperately needed.
There are three special friends I have to thank: Gae Polisner, who also read Never Eighteen in its early stages and gave me priceless advice; Jeff Fielder, who gave me the name of my agent, Irene Kraas, when I was just about to give up; and Tracy Walshaw, who motivates and inspires. The friendship these three have given me these last few years has been invaluable, and there are many days I'm not sure I would have made it through without them. They make me laugh, think, and work to be a better writer and a better person.
I need to thank my amazing agent, Irene Kraas, who had faith in a little teen novel, at that time titled "Mending Fences." She took me in when I was about to give up, and remarkably sold my novel in two weeks.
To Julia Richardson, my wonderful editor who puts up with my endless questions, and has made revisions and copyedits fairly pain-free.
To my family, my parents, Guelda and John Messina, who never lost faith in me through the years, though I know I must have caused them some grief. To my brother and fellow writer, John Messina, who has read my stuff and given me positive reinforcement. To my sister Maribeth, who keeps me sane at my day job. To my sister Dana, who didn't kill me when I was little (and helped with my first-pass pages).
To Rusty Bostic, without whom this story would never have been written. He has been my idea man and best friend since the onset of my writing career.
Last, I thank my daughters, Mary and Rachel, for being my motivation to turn this hobby into a profession, and inspiring me every day (even the days when they drive me nuts).
Never Eighteen Playlist
Music often inspires my writing. You may have noticed songs and music mentioned throughout Never Eighteen. I wanted to use lyrics from some of the songs below, but because permissions are hard to get, I could not. Other songs on the list just inspire the spirit of the book. Here's the Never Eighteen playlist:
"I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie
"New Slang" by the Shins
"Bulls on Parade" by Rage Against the Machine
"Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Cutie
"All Possibilities" by Badly Drawn Boy
"Where the Moss Slowly Grows" by Tiger Army
"Sometime Around Midnight" by the Airborne Toxic Event
"Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol
"Fix You" by Coldplay
"Brick" by Ben Folds Five
"Red Right Ankle" by the Decemberists
"How We Operate" by Gomez
"Love's Labour is Lost" by the Less Deceived
"Weighty Ghost" by Wintersleep
MEGAN BOSTIC has lived in Tacoma, Washington, pretty much her entire life. Despite the rain and gray (she craves sunshine), she still lives there with her family. Never Eighteen is her debut novel. Visit Megan at www.meganbosticbooks.com.