by Julie Israel
When we finally roll out of it and prop ourselves up, there is sand and a slimy frond of kelp in my hair. Brand cups my face and pulls it out.
When it’s gone, he leaves his hand right where it is.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” he says.
“I’m really going to miss you.”
“Quit stealing my lines.”
He leans closer, lashes fluttering up and down—and then a renegade tide breaks against us, bowling us over. We clamber up, laughing and screaming, and splash back to dry sand.
“Ugh,” Brand concludes when we drop onto a washed-up log. Sand clings to our wet skin, coats our calves and ankles and feet. Our dripping clothes make the wind that much sharper, but at least it’s warm out for this time of year.
I watch Brand shake his bangs and empty water from his shoes.
“What are you thinking about?”
“You. The band. You.” He chucks the shoes into the sand and turns to face me.
“You’ll still see us both.” We’ve already looked up the drive: just over two hours. Easily managed weekends.
“Not nearly enough.”
Brand eyes me like a man condemned, and I know which of the two he is thinking of.
But I ask him, “Will Muffin Wars be okay?”
A half frown, then a nod. “The drive’ll make practice harder, but we’ll make up for it when we go on tour this summer. Oh, and speaking of: We’re going on tour this summer! You should come.”
“I might . . . if I’m not busy with that program at Polaris.”
Brand’s brows go up. “You’re gonna do it?”
I smile. “Haven’t decided yet, but I scheduled a visit. I got the impression that if I liked what I saw, I’d be in.”
“Well, if you’re busy, there’re always the dozens of fan girls who’d be eager to take your place . . .”
“In what, a sweaty band van ripe with fast food and Axe musk? Let ’em.”
“C’mere.”
He pulls me to him. I murmur and fold him closer like a blanket. For a long time we just sit like that, my head against his neck, his arms around me, both watching the waves crash and roll flat, suck back. I find the motion like breath: in/out, push/pull, a living constant. The night feels eternal, and even though I hear laughter, shouting, and Angela and Kody bickering over something in the distance (Reese’s Pieces vs. gummy bear s’mores, it sounds like), this moment might as well be forever.
“Okay, you have a point about the band van,” Brand observes, at last ending the silence. “But you were wrong about another thing.”
I turn in the cradle of his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“It wasn’t your sister who brought everyone together.” He combs the hair back from my face. “It was you.”
I smile, kiss his wind-blasted cheek, and nestle back.
“Speaking of YOU,” he says, the thought suddenly occurring. “That was a pretty big move back there.”
I smile again, this time to myself. “It wasn’t so hard after the thank-you note he sent.”
“The what?” Brand’s spine straightens. He turns me by the shoulders to meet my eye. “YOU wrote to you? Who was it? What did he say?”
I fight the urge to laugh as my smile grows coy. “A wise man once told me,” I say, extricating myself from his grasp and standing, “to keep my nose out of other people’s business.”
His jaw falls. “You’re not gonna tell me?”
I ease backward, smirking.
He says, “There are ways of making you talk . . .”
I say nothing, daring him to try. Brand leaps to his feet and charges. I squeal and turn from him, running wild, barefoot through the sand, the wind streaking free through my hair. When he catches me, and we roll on our backs toward the star-filled sky, I do not see the diamonds, the glittering shards that have shone there for billions of years, but the blue-black canopy between them. I see it and think of my watercolors, of carving Bristol from linoleum, of Polaris—with a twang, of Camie’s hand in them all, of the thousand ways she’ll never see her touch unfold—and somehow recognize it is this very darkness, the cutouts, the envelope of holes that makes the stars so sharp and beautiful. All that absence isn’t negative space.
It’s the gum that holds the universe together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The book at the end of 526 files on one’s computer (don’t worry, they’re not all drafts) does not go from spark to finished product without a lot of help. These are just a few of the many to whom I owe thanks:
Kathy Dawson and Natalie Doherty, my incredible editor duo. Kathy, thank you for being the first to say Yes and taking Juniper on in the US; Natalie, thank you for picking it up in the UK and creating the very lucky scenario of having two brilliant minds to guide edits! Thank you both for giving Juniper a home, and for the insights that reached deep into the core of the story and drew out its best elements. You knew just where to dig and to carve and to polish, and your wisdom has brought this book to life in ways I might have never accomplished otherwise.
Susan Hawk, my fairy bookmother and agent extraordinaire. Thank you for loving Juniper. Thank you for seeing the glint in the rock when it was less than refined. Thank you for being my champion, my industry support, and—in the immortal words of Hall & Oates—for making my dreams come true!
My first readers: Aubrey Cann, Laekan Zea Kemp, Kelsey Jordan, and Stefanie Israel. Special thanks to Kelsey, who read more than once, and to Aubrey, who read so many variations, I lost count.
Aubrey, you get your own paragraph. This book would not be where it is without you. Your generosity deserves medals and drinks and desserts named in your honor, and I thank you for supporting Juniper from first draft to final—and for supporting me as a friend along the way.
Mom and Dad. Thank you. I could express my gratitude a new way each day for decades and it would never be enough, never truly repay the gifts of support and encouragement and possibility you have given me. Although I’m sure you could think of a few (Yes, I’ll make truffles every once in a while; no, I don’t think I’ll be able to introduce you to Stephen King). Thank you for believing in me.
My sisters, Darina and Stefanie. Whether the first draft or just test lines (“Gummy bears?”), thanks for letting me pilot new material on you. More importantly, thank you for your confidence and antics and love, which kept me going.
A special hug and thanks to Grandma (“Gramma”) Israel, who’s always nurtured my addiction to words—and who supplied the little red Dala horse that wandered into this story.
Natasha Rauf, my creative oasis. Thank you for being there for me as a writer, as a fellow artist, as a friend. Making art with you restores me, our laughter could power a town, you are an inspiration of kindness and talent and taste. Our shenaniganza shall go down in history.
To friends dear and far who had faith in me: Kathryn Tanquary, Saori Den, Peter O’Duffy. Thank you.
To the many at Kathy Dawson Books and Penguin Random House Children’s UK who have helped Juniper behind the scenes: Claire Evans, Emma Jones, Harriet Venn, Tash Collie, and Rachel Khoo, among others. You have my eternal gratitude.
To Liveright Publishing Corporation for gracious permission to reproduce lines from E. E. Cummings, and to Sony for permission to quote lyrics from Queen’s “Bicycle Race” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” both written by Freddie Mercury. Thank you!
To You, dear reader. All 526 files, the efforts of everyone I have named, and likely those of many I have not (please forgive me if I’ve missed you; I am no less grateful to you!), have lead to this moment and the story you now hold in your hands. Thank you for picking it up and bringing it to life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Israel lives in Portland, Oregon, and holds a BA in Creative Writing. After a stint teaching English in Japan, she returned to her n
ative state to write fiction full-time. When not writing, she is likely reading, making art, or learning one of too many languages to keep straight. Juniper Lemon’s Happiness Index is her debut novel.
You can find Julie online at
www.julieisrael.com
@thatjulieisrael
julieisrael
/AuthorJulieIsrael
@julieeeisrael
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