First Comes Love

by Katie Kacvinsky

  This book is half dream and half reality, half experiences I've had and half experiences I would love to have. I guess that's why I love writing. I get to live out my dreams for a while.

  Playlists

  While I wrote, I compiled playlists that helped me build Gray’s and Dylan’s characters. Just for fun, I’m also including one of the mixes Gray made for Dylan.

  Gray:

  My Lie, The White Buffalo

  This Is Such a Pity Weezer

  Mysterious Ways U2

  To Be Young Ryan Adams

  Joy Ride The Killers

  Nearly Beloved The Wallflowers

  I Want You Bob Dylan

  Rock and Roll Eric Hutchinson

  Just Like Heaven The Cure

  July, July The Decemberists

  Never Had Nobody Like You M. Ward

  Whatever You Like T.I.

  Tear It Off Method Man and Redman

  Fool in the Rain Led Zeppelin

  Hang Me Up to Dry Cold War Kids

  Elevation U2

  Dylan:

  Kodachrome Paul Simon

  Optimistic Thoughts Blues Traveler

  I Don’t Know Why Alison Krauss

  When You Feel It Brett Dennen

  Five Years Time Noah and the Whale

  Sweetest Thing U2

  All Summer Long Phoebe Kreutz

  Rain King Counting Crows

  Rudie Can’t Fail The Clash

  The Underdog Spoon

  If You Want Sing Out, Sing Out Cat Stevens

  I Hear the Bells Mike Doughty

  The Littlest Birds The Be Good Tanyas

  Say Hey Michael Franti

  Live Your Life T.I.

  True or False Bishop Allen

  Gray’s Mix to Dylan:

  California Joey Ryan

  Fresh Feeling The Eels

  Lover Devendra Banhart

  Don’t Be Shy Cat Stevens

  The Book of Love The Magnetic Fields

  Yellow Coldplay

  Let’s Get It On Jack Black

  Romeo and Juliet The Killers

  It’s Love Chris Knox

  Crazy Love Adam Sandler

  I’ll Keep It with Mine Bob Dylan

  Burning Love Elvis Presley

  Hawkmoon 269 U2

  Hallelujah Jeff Buckley

  Peaceful Easy Feeling The Eagles

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Helen Breitwieser for being my agent, my sounding board, and sometimes my therapist. Thanks to Julia Richardson, my editor, for helping to shape this book into its best form. Thanks to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for taking on this book and believing it was special. Thanks to Ryan (with whom I’ve actually run down Mulholland Drive) for making me fall in love with Bob Dylan—although my love will never surpass yours. Thanks to Gail, my grandmother, for always encouraging the wild and adventurous Dylan inside of me, and to my parents for all of their love and support. Thanks to the town of Sedona for, well, existing. Thanks to some of my hilarious, strong, and creative friends, such as Jill Weidenbaum, Karin Morris, Becky Bechtell, Marcia Doran, and Val Peck, who have inspired as well as participated in some of my greatest moments. Thanks to Mark Thompson, my guitar teacher in Phoenix. Thanks to my sister for your recommendations on my three greatest passions: books, movies, and music. Thanks to Kelley Croco for your feedback on my rewrites. Thanks to the Wisconsin Woodchucks for making me fall in love with baseball (and making my summer nights much more memorable), and, always, a huge thanks to Adam for being so consistently wonderful.

  In the year 2060, the world is completely plugged in and tuned out...

  But when Madeline meets Justin, he shows her there's a different—better—way to live.

  Keep reading for a sample chapter from

  awaken

  by Katie Kacvinsky

  www.hmhbooks.com

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT

  May 7, 2060

  My mom gave me an old leather-bound journal for my seventeenth birthday. At first the blank pages surprised me, as if the story inside was lost or had slipped out. She explained sometimes the story is supposed to be missing because it’s still waiting to be written. Leave it to my mom to give me something from the past to use in the future.

  They don’t make paper books anymore—it’s illegal to chop down real trees. They still grow in some parts of the world, but I’ve never seen one. Most cities have switched to synthetic trees, and people prefer them to the living ones. Synthetic trees come shipped to your house in any size you want, so you don’t have to wait fifteen years for them to grow. Now you shop online and choose your desired size and height, and in days you have a full-grown tree in your yard, cemented into the ground and supported with steel beams anchored into the base. Instant. Simple. No fuss.

  Synthetic trees never die. They don’t wither in the fall. You don’t have a mess of leaves and needles to sweep up. They’re fireproof They don’t cause allergies. And they’re always perfectly green (constantlygreen.com has the best synthetic tree selection, according to my mom). The

  leaves can fade a little from the sun, but you just spray-paint them green again. During Halloween, people spray-paint the leaves on their trees yellow, orange, and red. It’s the colors leaves used to turn before they fell to the ground. My mom said she can remember seeing the fall colors when she was young. She said it was the most beautiful time of the year. It’s hard to imagine anything becoming beautiful as it dies. Then again, it’s hard to imagine much that Mom insists used to “be. ”

  When trees were dying off in fires and overharvested, books were the first to go. These days books are downloaded digitally and you can order any book you want to be uploaded into your Bookbag in seconds, which I convert onto my Zipfeed. It reads the words out loud to me on my computer. Simple. Convenient. I know how to read, of course. We learn it in Digital School 2. I still read my chat messages on my phone. But it was proven that audio learning is a faster way to retain information, according to some Ph.D. researchers who studied rats in a cage. By observing rats they figured out the best way for humans to learn. Some politician thought this theory sounded glamorous, so they changed a law that changed the world. That’s why I listen to almost all of my books.

  I didn’t escape the chore of using my eyes to read. Mom still enforces it. She saved all her old novels and stores them in these wooden cabinets with glass doors called bookshelves. Every year she hands down a few of her favorites to me. I have a collection slowly building in my bedroom. I have to admit, I like the look of them. I also like to escape inside their world, tucked behind their colorful spines. It forces me to fully invest my mind into what I’m doing, not just my ears or my eyes. I think barricading them behind glass is a little obsessive, but Mom says the paper in books will yellow if they’re exposed to air. Just like the leaves on the trees that couldn’t survive in this world. Hey, if you can’t acclimate, you disintegrate. I learned that in Digital School 3.

  So, you can imagine my surprise when my mom gave me a blank book. I rarely see a book with print in it, and now a blank one—what a waste. No wonder we killed all the trees. And I’m supposed to write in this thing. Longhand. It’s this form of writing using ink on paper. It’s so slow! It makes me laugh watching people do it in old movies. It hasn’t been used in twenty years. We learn it in school, but it’s simulated on our flipscreens. Only specialty online stores sell ink pens, but leave it to my mom to invest in this historic item. “Madeline, ” she told me, “it’s good for you to write down your thoughts. It’s therapeutic because it forces you to slow down and think about life.”

  I feel guilty writing on this paper, staining something with words when maybe it’s their emptiness, the fact that they’re unscathed, that’s more interesting than anything I have to say. My life is far from remarkable. Sadly, it’s the other extreme. It is predictable. Controlled. Mandated. Paved out for me in a trail I’m forced to follow.

  Why should I take the time to write down my thoughts whe
n no one else can even read them? I’m used to millions of people having access to everything about me. I’m used to a fountain of feedback and comments trailing every entry I type, every thought I expose. That makes me feel justified. It shows that people genuinely care about me. It reminds me that I’m real and I exist. Why try to hide it all in a book? Besides, there are no secrets. Sooner or later, the truth always leaks out. That’s one thing I’ve learned in this life.

  Chapter one

  I pulled a sweatshirt over my head, and just as I opened my bedroom door, I was distracted by a red light flashing on my computer. I was running late, but the glow of the light caught my attention and held me in place like a net. I programmed my screen to flash different colors depending on who was calling. I knew red could only mean one person. I sat down and tapped the light with my finger and a single white sentence materialized on the screen.

  Are you going to be there tonight?

  I read Justin’s question and bit my lips together. My mind told me to say no. That answer would please my father. He trained me to squeeze my thoughts through a filter so my decisions came out acceptable and obedient. But lately it was making me feel weak, like my mind wasn’t really mine anymore, just a program to manipulate. That’s why this time, I was tempted to say yes.

  I met Justin two months ago on TutorPage—it’s a live chatroom for students to get help on homework assignments. We were both stuck on writing a thesis sentence for our literary analysis paper, a requirement in Digital School 4. Since the tutor was being swarmed with questions and Justin and I had the same problem, we figured

  it out together. I remember him writing the oddest comment that day. He wrote, “Two brains are better than one.” It was strange because you can go through all of DS-4 without even looking at another person, let alone working with someone. One of the perks to a digital life is it forces you to be independent.

  Justin and I coordinated to study two days a week together and then he started sending me invites to face-to-face tutor sessions held in downtown Corvallis. When he assured me the groups were small, but could be helpful, I still dreaded the idea of meeting him in public. I’m used to the security of living behind my online profiles and the clip art advertisements I create to define me. I can be whoever I want to be in that world. I can be funny, deep, pensive, eccentric. I can be the best version of myself. Better yet, an exaggeration of the best version of myself. I can make all the right decisions. I can delete my flaws by pressing a button.

  In the real world anything can happen. It’s like stepping onto an icy surface—you have to adjust your footing or you’ll slip and fall. Your movements become rigid and unsure because behind all the fancy gadgets and all that digital armor, you realize you’re just flesh and bones.

  I stared back at the screen where his words floated patiently and a strange feeling, like a shot of adrenaline, pushed through my blood. I knew I had to meet him tonight. Intuition works closely alongside fate, like they’re business partners working together to alter the course of your life.

  I spoke my answer out loud and my voice was automatically converted into a digital message.

  I decided maybe was the best response, just in case I lost my nerve. I hit send and a second later he responded.

  Life is too short to say maybe.

  I narrowed my eyes at the screen. Why was he pushing this? Why couldn’t he let me be noncommittal and leave me alone about it?

  Why are you going out of your way to meet me? I asked.

  Why are you going out of your way to avoid it?

  I’ve been grounded for a while. I hesitated before I hit send. I’d never opened up to Justin about my personal life. We always kept our relationship safe—bobbing just on the surface.

  A while? As in a few weeks? he asked.

  I laughed, but it came out sounding flat and humorless. Try two and a half years, I thought. I decided he didn’t need to know this detail. It’s easy to delete the truth when you live behind your own permanent censor.

  Something like that, I said.

  What did you do?

  I have a rebellious streak.

  That’s a little vague, he said.

  I frowned at the screen. I’m not going to dish out my life story to an online stranger.

  Then I think it’s about time we meet, he said.

  I bit my nails when this sentence appeared. I focused on the words. They sounded so simple. But just when I believed something was simple, there was always more lurking underneath.

  I’ll be there, I said, and hit send before I could change my mind.

  I hopped out of the chair, grabbed my soccer cleats, and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Dad glanced at me from the table where he was reading the news on our wall screen. My mom sat next to him, reading a magazine—she insists on having the hard copy, printed on plastic paper. She’s the only person I know who complains that computer screens hurt her eyes.

  Dad examined the shoes I was holding with disapproval.

  “I thought your season was over,” he said.

  I felt my hands tighten around the shoes and I kept my eyes focused steadily on his. We had the same large, penetrating eyes, the color of swirling gray clouds with flecks of green floating

  near the pupils. When my dad was angry, his eyes turned as dark as storm clouds just before they erupt into a downpour. He could use his eyes to intimidate, to persuade, or to demand respect. I hadn’t mastered those traits; my eyes only seemed to give me away.

  “The league goes year-round,” Mom pointed out to him.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Did we talk about you playing soccer year-round, Maddie? I thought you were just playing fall and winter leagues.”

  I kept my eyes locked on his. He tried too often to make me duck under his discipline. Baley, our chocolate Lab, wagged her tail next to me and I bent down to scratch her ears.

  “The spring league just started,” I said. “It’s only once a week. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “It’s a little expensive,” he said.

  I tried not to roll my eyes since I knew my dad made more money than ten families would know what to do with, being the director of Digital School, Inc. The curriculum, medium, and content of what I learned—and where and when I learned it—was overseen and instituted by the signature of my father’s hand. It was also his power and connections that got me in trouble two and a half years ago and created the constant rift of distrust in our relationship. Half of the time he didn’t seem like a father to me, more like security enforcement.

  “She’s seventeen, Kevin,” Mom said. “Didn’t we agree to let her socialize more often?” I stared between them and tightened my lips. I hated it when they talked about me like I wasn’t standing in the same room, like I’m a piece of clay they have to mold in order to hold a shape.

  “I guess you’re right,” he finally agreed.

  I nodded once and thanked him. I raced out the front door and ran down the sidewalk to try and catch the train. The air was warm

  and the sun was finally making its spring entrance, after a long winter of hibernation. Rays of light peered through the branches above me and painted a splattering of bright and dull colors on the turf grass below. The tower of green leaves crinkled in the breeze as I passed. I met the train just as it pulled to a stop on Hamersley Street. I jumped on and scanned my fingerprint against a tiny screen as the doors beeped shut behind me.

  Erin sat by the window in the back of the compartment. She was watching something on her phone and nodding her head to the music floating out of the speakers.

  “Hey,” I said, and plopped down in the seat next to her. I took my phone out of my pocket to check a message.

  “You almost missed the train,” she said without looking up. “That’s not like you.”

  I was distracted by a digital advertisement playing on a screen inside the compartment. A middle-aged man dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt
promised me I could transform my entire lawn into a colorful flower garden in five easy steps. I watched him roll out a thick carpeting of plastic grass speckled with fake flowers and staple it into the ground.

  “Why were you late?” Erin asked.

  “My dad wanted to have a little chat,” I said.

  She smirked and pressed a few buttons on her keypad. “What now?”

  I tapped my foot restlessly against the rubber floor mat. “Oh, he just needs reassurance he’s in complete control of every facet of my life.”

  Erin creased her eyebrows and continued to type. “He doesn’t trust you to play soccer?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s unsupervised, it’s liberating,” I reminded her. “He hates that.”

  When the train slowed to our stop, we jumped off and crossed the sidewalk to the turf soccer fields. I heard whistling in the distance and Erin and I looked up to see a small school of black birds soaring overhead. Their small inky bodies formed a moving arrow in the sky, like a kite with no strings attached to reel it back down to the ground. Seeing birds in the city was rare, since all the trees and gardens were synthetic, but once in a while they passed through and I always took it as a sign that something exceptional was about to happen.

  I looked down at the dark outline of a bird tattooed on the inside of my wrist, where the skin is delicate and the veins are thick. I ran my finger along its outstretched wings and smiled. Every time I looked at my tattoo I was reminded of the person I wanted to be. Someone that’s free to move. Someone that’s too spirited to be caged in.

  Erin and I sat down on the grass to stretch. We were the only two players that showed up early for practice every week.