When he finishes, we don’t do anything as succinct as hug. We only stare at each other for an elongated moment, his brow curved and my cheeks wet. We both know his guilt doesn’t negate mine. We both know that part isn’t over. We both know that this is only the start.
But we also know it isn’t the only thing about to begin.
NARI
Saturday, June 8
All right. Picture this: Sun, grass, and a dome of blue sky. Polyester robes, each with our ace flag pin, decorated mortarboards, a heady dose of excitement, and a whole mess of pomp and circumstance because it’s…graduation! I mean, of course it is! What better moment to go out on than the final one of our high school careers? Our last with literal ceremony? After this there’s just summer with its five countdowns to five departures followed by the beginnings of five sequels.
So graduation feels right. Especially because we’re here and, well, not in jail! Hooray! And I don’t mean that flippantly. My exclamations are utterly sincere. Because instead of jail cells and jumpsuits and lawyers and court dates and bail and and and, we’re sitting out on the lawn a few dozen yards off from the emptying bleachers and crumpled programs, post photo-taking frenzy, post proudly tearing parents and hovering, bored-ish siblings, for a few stolen minutes.
In other words, a moment of pure, unadulterated Friend Love.
“Well,” I say. “It’s been grand.”
“It has,” Keag says, “hasn’t it?”
I rest my head on his shoulder. The bright blue polyester of his gown is warm from the sun.
Reese beams. “I feel like one giant smile. Like I might start seeping gooey optimism out of my pores.”
“Satisfaction seepage,” says San.
“Glee secretions,” Bellamy adds.
Reese fake gags. We all laugh. I can’t believe it’s over. I mean, I know “over” isn’t the right word. We all still have approximately 1,999,963 hours of community service (decided on by the tribunal of our parents, sans actual legal proceedings, thank every single iteration of god) to complete. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It’s more like five hundred. Each. But seriously? I’d do the two million in lieu of juvie or jail, so kudos, Mr. Foster and the parents, for coming together on this non-life-ruining, extralegal consequence agreement. I may be grounded from all things tech until college this fall, and we all, except for this current celebratory moment, are forbidden from seeing each other for another few weeks. But again, NOT JAIL.
But averted penal consequences aside, we all know this is when things start to change.
Take Reese. Three months from now, she’ll be off to Prague. Then Turkey. And Greece. Then on to Croatia, Italy, Austria, France, Germany, Switzerland. Basically, she’s planning on wandering her way through Europe and wherever else strikes her fancy for as long as the money lasts. Which will be a while, because turns out people will pay out the ass for creepy-cute creatures drawn on various articles of clothing, and during our post-Event fallout, after her dad revoked his threat to trash her Etsy storefront, she used her sequestration to pump out an army of creepy-cute creatures. After all that she’ll start college in New York. Where she’s going to live with her mom (yes, her mom, for real) while she goes to school.
And San? Well, our beloved Santiago, man of many talents, air-duct contortionist, admirer of Bellamy, is still headed to Stanford in the fall and has already begun his Olympic-qualifiers diving regimen as laid out by his new Californian coach. His parents have also started speaking to him again, so, you know, progress? Oh, and I’ve given up asking him about him and Bellamy. All I’ve gotten out of either of them is a random “I don’t know” or “maybe someday” despite the recent prevalence of shared smiles and elongated looks, and that one time when Bells, San, and I were all headed to clean the same stretch of highway and Santiago gave Bells a ride after school while I lingered for a few minutes with Keag before he drove me over, and we spied them both climbing out of San’s two-seater looking a little ruffled, a little swollen-lipped and pink-cheeked. So, yeah, I feel pretty confident saying San’s doing okay.
Next up: My dear, my love, my one and only, Keagan. Okay, for the record? I don’t actually believe in soul mates. And Keagan might not be my One and Only forever. I can’t see the future! But that doesn’t mean I love him less than enormously. Just that this is life. And life changes. And we change. And we have changed. And I’m trying to be more realistic in my expectations. For him, for myself, for all of it. Anyway, Keags is fabulous. We are fabulous. We’re also still headed in the same direction come this fall. He’s been talking with a construction company that specializes in restoration about a job and looking into an apprenticeship with a woodworker, too. I like to picture him wearing flannel with sawdust in his hair. It’s hot.
We’ve also been doing a lot of talking. At school between classes and at lunch; on the phone (landline) at night for the twenty minutes (seriously) we’re allowed. We’ve talked about it all. The certainty of alien life. If Bells will be able to get us on the spaceship to our new planet when humans trash this one once and for all. Which is really better, Twizzlers (me, duh) or Red Vines (Keag, gross). How sometimes I let my brightness destroy my satellites like an expanding star, but also how I can’t read minds and need said satellites to maybe do a little hand waving when my glow gets too hot. And how, okay, there was actually quite a bit of hand waving that I maybe chose to ignore but also that’s over! In the past! And all I can really do is try to pay more attention and listen closer in the future while at the same time Keagan lets himself be a little louder. Thankfully that loudness sounds less like “I TOLD YOU SO!” and more like “You’re amazing but imperfect and I love your amazingness and your imperfections but never ask me to commit a felony again because no.”
As for me? Well. The tech ban has seriously cramped (read: nullified) d0l0s’s style. But it’s also allowed me to refocus my energies on things like roadside cleanup! Jokes (not really). Actually, it’s been…I won’t say good or liberating or anything else so painfully not true, but it has been, uh, healthy? Yeah, I’ll go with “healthy.” I sleep more, which is good. And my parents and brothers look at me differently, which is, well, different. But! All in all, I don’t regret it. Should I whisper that? Maybe. But I won’t, because I don’t. What we did, what I did, was wrong. And that wrongness risked every good thing (both mundane and exceptional) in my and four other people’s lives. So if I could go back, would I do it differently? As in, take international markets etc. into account? Ha ha, not answering that. But without all the illegal parts aka stealing loads of money and such? Yes. I’d still do it. It being the “fix Bellamy’s problem” part. Because…
Bellamy oh Bellamy. Bells is…She’s a foggy window scrubbed clean; a blurry screen protector swapped for a brand-new one. She shines. She glistens. Which I am so not taking credit for. Because it wasn’t The Event (well, maybe a little) but the fallout that cleansed her tarnish. It’s more like the Absent Father of it all was a sort of stain, a dampener. Confronting Robert Foster was Bells’s version of shedding her too-small teenage skin, emerging from her chrysalis, spreading her wings and—
Yeah, okay. But really? She’s the new Bells. Bells 2.0. A Bellamy who goes for it, who kisses San (undocumented fact but in this instance I’m cool with assuming) and calls her father Robert even after he asked her to call him Dad, to which she actually answered, “No, you haven’t earned it.” Legit fireworks.
But enough of all that, right? Because WHAT ABOUT MIT?
Well.
It’s a go. Seriously. A Big Fat Go. And at the risk of suggesting that questionable behavior pays off…it paid off. I mean, okay. Keagan would interject here by pointedly clearing his throat because finally talking to her dad, not just the one nonstarter phone call, is what “paid off.” But would that have ever happened without The Event? I don’t know. Ifs, maybes, could’ves, would’ves, should’ves, whatever, I’m happy to lea
ve that a muddle.
In any case. We gave it back. The money. All of it. (Of course.) But Mr. Robert “Bobby” Foster did not report us, let alone press charges, and is still paying for Bellamy’s tuition (plus housing and books), with the only contingency being that she calls him once a week and visits him this August. Oh, and that if she ever invents the means for near-light-speed interplanetary travel, he gets first investment dibs.
So, yeah, Big Fat Glitter Unicorn Win.
Which catches us up to today. To this bright and beautiful here and now. To a feeling in my gut like bottled sunshine as I open my bag and hand out four framed copies (mine’s at home) of that picture of us posed around the statue at the Sea Lion Caves, as we laugh, then quip, then go silent as each of us stares at the photo and considers what it means, what we lost, what we changed, what we kept, what we gained, until Reese says, “Painted Pig!”
And Keagan says, “Okay, five teenagers, each with their own special skill set—”
Santiago groans. Reese throws her mortarboard at him, corners out, the black, gray, white, and purple stripes of the pride flag she painted on it spinning.
“Hey!” Keag laughs, hands up. “Kidding! Kidding. I swear.”
Bellamy runs the strings of her tassel between her fingers and says, grinning, “I’ve got one….”
The Friend Love glows. And we’re basking in it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Reaching this page is utterly surreal. And I have so many people to thank for helping me get here. Because while writing is often a solitary endeavor, becoming a writer, finishing and publishing a book, absolutely is not.
To my agent, Melissa Edwards, thank you forever and always for plucking me out of the slush. Your keen eye, guidance, and unfailing support have meant more to me than I can possibly express. I am eternally grateful for your partnership through the ups and downs and everything in between in this business. Onward and upward!
To my editor, Kelly Delaney, thank you for falling in love with Nari, Reese, San, Keagan, and Bellamy the way I love them. From day one, you just got it. Working with you, with someone who so clearly shares my vision for this story, who has helped me make these characters and this book better at every turn, has been such an incredibly rewarding experience. I am so thankful to have you as my editor, so proud of this book, and I’m so excited for what’s next!
To everyone at Knopf BFYR, to Angela Carlino, Jaclyn Whalen, Diana Varvara, Artie Bennett, and Renée Cafiero and all those who’ve had a hand in bringing Immoral Code into the world, thank you, thank you, thank you. This is a dream come true.
To Idris Grey and Laina, thank you! Your thoughtful feedback was crucial in helping me better understand Reese. I so appreciate the time you took and the insight you offered.
To my friends and family who’ve cheered me on through the decade-long process that led me to this point, to Laura, Carrie, Lacy, Mary, Devin, Reta, Brian, Jill, Greg, Amelia, Catherine, Bill, and the rest of my family, thank you.
To Maria, thank you. Thank you for being one of my very first readers. Thank you for listening to my book-related ramblings over the years. Thank you for all of your help with Santiago and the Spanish in this book. Thank you!
To the many teachers who’ve shaped my life and inspired me to pursue this dream, thank you. Thank you especially to Beth Loffreda for teaching classes that challenged me to expand my perspective, for hours of conversation, and for being one of the first people to call me a writer. And to the memory of Bob Torry, thank you. I’ll forever remember sitting down with you the first time to discuss a paper I’d written for Freshman Honors Colloquium and you asking me what major I planned to declare in a way where “English” was the only right answer. What a remarkable turning point that moment ended up being in my life.
To Mark Spragg, thank you for the time you gave me at a crucial moment in my writing life. Your advice was invaluable and helped make me the writer I am today.
To Karen and The Second Story bookstore: Whatever I say here will be insufficient. The nearly nine years I spent working for you, KK, will forever be some of my favorite. You were a fantastic boss and are a wonderful friend. Thank you. (Readers, if you ever make it to Laramie, Wyoming, check out The Second Story bookstore. It is one of my most loved places in the world.)
To Jim, thank you for years of interest and for always eagerly asking when I’d be done with the next chapter. Your encouragement has meant the world to me.
To the memories of my grandparents, thank you for giving me a childhood and adolescence surrounded by readers and books. Thank you for loving me and for believing in me. The day I got the call my book had sold, I missed you all a little extra.
To my dad: Thank you for telling me my entire life that if I wanted to do something, I could. Thank you for teaching me confidence and determination and for being there for me without fail. I could not have asked for a better father.
To my mom: Thank you for giving me a lifetime example of a strong, smart, driven woman. Thank you for motivating me to dream big and work hard and to always be learning. With your support and love, I know I can do anything I set my mind to.
To Owen: You can’t read this yet, but someday you will, and I want you to know how wildly I love you, how full and vibrant you’ve made my life. I am grateful every day that I get to be your mom.
And finally, to Erik: How do I thank you for the last fifteen years? From those first scribble-filled spiral notebooks over a decade ago to today, you’ve believed in me, encouraged me, and taken my dream seriously. I could not have done this without you. Thank you.
© Rebecca Vanderhorst
LILLIAN CLARK, a graduate of the University of Wyoming, grew up riding horses, climbing trees, and going on grand imaginary adventures in the small-town West. She’s worked as a lifeguard, a camp counselor, and a Zamboni driver, but found her eternal love as a bookseller at an independent bookstore. Now living in Teton Valley, Idaho, with her husband, son, and two giant dogs, she spends her time reading almost anything and writing books for teens.
LILLIANJCLARK.COM
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
Immoral Code Page 24