* * *
—
Today, Louise tells herself, is the first day of the rest of your life.
* * *
—
“Hey! Fuck you! We all have to pee.”
She elbows past them.
Lavinia’s phone, smashed, is in the trash.
* * *
—
It is morning. Times Square is still so full of people.
Louise walks faster, now, and then faster still, and Cordelia has posted I am not insane. My sister is dead. and all her Exeter friends keep telling her to calm down, that she can call them if she needs to, and there will be a moment for Cordelia, when Cordelia checks her phone and among all these expressions of placating sympathy she sees that Louise Wilson, too, has Liked this status, but when she goes to click on it she will see that Louise Wilson does not exist.
* * *
—
There is no way in which Louise can fuck up because she has already done all of the worst things, and maybe nobody will ever love her again and maybe that’s okay, too, because why else do you set things on fire except to burn them, and maybe they will find her or maybe they will never find her but Louise hopes if somebody finds her it is somebody who deserves to.
Louise hopes Cordelia will.
Now Louise has one dollar and forty-six cents in change. She has a fake ID. She has one set of clean clothes and auburn hair so dark it’s almost violet.
She doesn’t even have a phone.
Louise keeps walking, into Times Square. She walks so quickly. She walks into the crowd, and then we have to crane our necks to keep her in our field of vision, because there are so many people in this city and so many of them have violet or auburn hair, many, many white women, about five-foot-five, who are reasonably thin, who walk very quickly, or who are wearing black leggings, with white T-shirts, under dark but flimsy coats, and then Louise, or someone who is not Louise, turns a corner, or crosses the street, and then we do not see her.
Acknowledgments
With immense gratitude to everyone who has made this book a reality: to my agents, Emma Parry and Rebecca Carter at Janklow and Nesbit, for their faith, their patience, and their work in shaping the first draft of Social Creature, and reminding me to tell a good story, first and foremost, and worry about the rest later.
And to my wonderful editor, Margaux Weisman, whose sharp eye and editorial acumen helped me see the manuscript with a fresh eye, and make it so much better, and to the entire fantastic editorial, marketing, and design teams at Penguin Random House and Doubleday, who have made this book look and feel so beautiful I’m almost afraid to touch it.
Thank you to Simon Worrall, my mentor, who set me on the right path early on!
And a special thank you to Brian McMahon, who has been reading drafts (and drafts and more drafts) of this story since 2009, and who has been putting up with my chaotic tendencies nearly as long, whose faith and guidance alike have made telling this story possible. I owe this book to you—and I’m so glad I do.
About the Author
Tara Isabella Burton is a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Winner of the Shiva Naipaul Memorial Prize for travel writing, she completed her doctorate in nineteenth-century French literature and in theology at the University of Oxford. Her essays have appeared in National Geographic, The Wall Street Journal, and The Economist’s 1843, among other publications. She currently works for Vox as their religion correspondent, and divides her time between the Upper East Side of New York and Tbilisi, Georgia.
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