by Trent Reedy
All week long, I tried everything I could think of to fix things with Isma. She wouldn’t talk to me face-to-face, so I slipped apologetic notes into her locker through the vent. I didn’t know if she found them. It would take more than saying sorry or writing her a few notes to make this up to her.
So I came to school on Thursday with a new plan. I knew it might not work. In fact, it might make things worse, and make a fool out of me in front of the whole school in the process. But at lunchtime, instead of going straight to the cafeteria, I took my full Army bag to the bathroom and changed inside a stall. “Okay, Dad,” I whispered, remembering how he’d finally taken a chance with that girl at the dance. “Let’s try that Cowboy Way now.”
Even though today’s homecoming dress-up theme was “Superhero Day,” I still caught a lot of stares and laughs as I entered the cafeteria. The costume had cost a fortune in Iowa City last night, and I’d had to paint a metal garbage-can lid to serve as my shield, but I thought I made a pretty convincing Captain America.
“Good one, Cap!” Dozer yelled out.
“Yeah, look out for Red Skull,” said Ethan from our table.
I gave a salute and the guys all laughed, but I continued my march straight toward Isma’s table. I stopped only to talk to Mrs. Potter, who was on lunch-monitor duty.
“Mrs. Potter?” I said.
She laughed. “Yes, Captain America?”
After adjusting the itchy blue mask over my nose, I put my hands on my hips and stood like the characters always did on the covers of the comic books. “I’m going to have to ask you to take a phone call in the office,” I said in a bold superhero voice. Now a lot of people pointed and laughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Isma staring at me, holding her sandwich halfway to her mouth.
Mrs. Potter frowned. “I have a phone call?”
“Not really, but I’d rather you weren’t around to stop me from the superhero deed I must do next.” I let her see the half dozen roses I had hidden behind my shield. “It’s kind of important.”
Mrs. Potter looked from me to Isma and back again. “Right. I have that phone call. And then, you know … the books in the library … should all be reorganized or something.” She laughed as she walked out of the lunchroom.
This was it. This was the moment. “Essayons,” I whispered to myself, marching to Isma’s table in all my red, white, and blue spandex glory. Isma watched me approach, her cheeks turning red. When I saw her put her sandwich down and get ready to leave, I ran to her, planting one foot on the bench seat to leap up on top of the table.
Everyone in the cafeteria roared with laughter and shouts of encouragement for Captain America.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Isma shouted over the noise.
“Isma Rafee!” I said in my deep superhero voice. “I am on an important mission! I think you are amazing! You’re brilliant and beautiful and so very talented!”
I jumped off the table to the floor, taking a knee in front of Isma, who turned in her seat to face me. Tears welled up in her eyes.
I whipped the flowers from behind my shield and held them out to her. “Isma, I may be Captain America with incredible superpowers, but I’m powerless without you. Will you go to the homecoming dance with me?”
She smiled, took the roses, and nodded as a tear ran down her cheek. “You know I will,” she said, standing and pulling me up.
I let my shield clang to the floor when I threw my arms around her, squeezing her close and swinging her around. All around us, people sprang to their feet, clapping, cheering, and whistling. In that moment, it had nothing to do with my costume, but I felt like a hero.
Friday night after the game, the cafetorium had been transformed into a celebration with music and swirling lights. I’d cleaned up and put on my dress pants and a new shirt, actually excited for the homecoming dance.
“Hey, Captain!” Mrs. Potter said. She was one of the chaperones. I nodded to her.
Cody jumped up on stage with the DJ. He said something to the guy, who handed him a microphone. Arnath had this big stupid grin, and I knew what he was going to say. “Roughriderrrrrrrrrrrs!” Cody shouted.
“Mount up!” a hundred of us yelled at once. The music kicked up again, and people went back to dancing.
Matt Karn walked by and slapped me a high five. “Nice game, Wilson. Good to have you back.”
“Thanks, man,” I said. It was great that he had put on clean clothes for the night instead of his lucky game shirt.
“Yeah, nice game.” Sullivan gave me a little punch to the shoulder before he went off to find his date.
It had been an awesome game. We’d beaten the Sigourney Sailors thirty-five to six. I hadn’t scored, but I picked up a lot of pass yardage, and I had a few key blocks. The whole team had been on fire with enthusiasm, and Sigourney never really had a chance. Best of all, Derek, Mary, and even Mom had come out to watch us play. Things were going to be okay.
A slow song started, and right away I looked for Isma, who had been on the other side of the cafetorium talking with some of the people from the musical. Ethan and Raelyn danced close together only a few yards away, and Ethan gave me a big smile and thumbs-up. I started heading toward Isma, only to run into Denny, who was moving to the side of the room. He looked a little lost without a date.
One of the missions Dad had given me was to do something nice for someone else. On Monday, I’d invite Denny to join us at lunch. I admired his courage. In the meantime, maybe I could help him out a bit here. “Where you going, man?” I said.
“I was g-going to get some punch,” he said. “I’m … really thirsty.”
I put my arm around his shoulders and guided him back the other way. “Naw, get some punch later. Kendra Hanson, man. She’s over there off to the side, and nobody has asked her to dance. Check out how awkward she looks, trying to act like she’s not embarrassed that everybody has a partner but her. You have to help her. Go ask her to dance.”
“She’s embarrassed?” Denny asked. “What if she turns me down? What if I don’t d-dance right?”
“Denny, you have a stutter, but you’re still doing that speech contest, right? You don’t know how that’s going to work out either. That’s okay. Just Cowboy it. Go ask her.”
He nodded and went to talk to Kendra. A few seconds later, she smiled and joined him on the dance floor. He was pretty awkward, but they’d work it out.
I stopped worrying about it because right then, Isma made her way to me through the crowd. She wore this great black dress with a mid-thigh-length skirt and a V-neck front with wide shoulder straps. She smiled as she pushed back a lock of her dark, lightly curled hair. She looked perfect.
“Hey, Captain,” she said. “Would you like to dance?”
“More than anything,” I said.
We stepped close together and moved with the music. In that moment all our friends, the memory of the game, the school, and everything we’d ever known faded away until only Isma and I remained. She rested her head on my chest, and I pulled her closer. We danced like that, slowly, together, as a field of tiny bright lights spun around us into the night.
* * *
Dear Dad,
In one of your letters, you said you hoped I would find a way to pray and find my place in a church. I’m looking into that. In the meantime, I don’t know about Heaven or any kind of afterlife. I have this idea that if I pray really hard, maybe God will let you read this letter. But even if you never get these words of mine, that’s all right. I still need to write them.
I know you think you haven’t been much of a father to me, being gone for so long. You’ve apologized about that a lot, but I know you would have been around if you could have. And the truth is, the war didn’t end quickly like you hoped it would, and many kids — too many — have grown up missing parents that they lost in Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m very lucky. When I was a little kid, you were a great dad, and through your letters, you’ll always remain that way.
You said you thought you’d done a bad job telling me what it means to be a man, but the truth is that you gave me something far more valuable. Because, you see, I think what our family was always missing — what you helped me find — was not just an end to the lies, but the desire to start exploring the truth. Not just my relentless pursuit of a bright, far-off future, but a more careful focus on the present. For a long time, I spent nearly all my time reading books about other people’s lives. You helped me start making stories of my own.
You tried to tell me about one truth, the idea of living the “glory days” of high school to their fullest. But while I’m glad to be more actively involved in activities and friendship, I realize that all that “wonder years” stuff is only part of the picture.
What’s more important is like what Polonius from Hamlet said, “To thine own self be true.” I’m not playing football to try to impress people or for popularity, but because I enjoy the game. I’ve learned the difference between high school stature and true friendship, and I choose the latter. I’ve learned you were right when you said that true friendship takes work, takes effort, but that it’s worth it. You gave me that gift.
And you introduced me to the Cowboy Way. I do my best to live by that philosophy all the time. I’ve even made a deliberate effort to be more friendly to guys like Denny Dinsler, so maybe they don’t feel so alone. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but that’s okay. That’s the point. Essayons, right?
For years, people have called you a hero, saying you fought for freedom. For a long time, that bothered me because I just couldn’t understand what our soldiers were doing over there. I understand now. You really were a hero, but not, I think, for the reasons a lot of people believe. You went to Afghanistan to try to help, because somebody had to, because that girl Zulaikha and so many Afghans like her deserved better. You gave it all not only for them, but also for your own soldiers.
You will always be a hero to me, Dad. You did it. Your plan worked. You came back to help me when I needed you the most, and I’ll always be grateful for the extra time we had.
I dream about you sometimes. In the dreams, it’s like you never died, or you died but somehow came back to life, or you’re dead but somehow visiting. In some of the dreams, we’re riding around in the Falcon together. I wish you could visit, Dad. I wish you could come see the Roughriders now that we’re in the playoffs, or that you could be there when I graduate in a couple years. I wish you could someday meet my wife, my kids. I wish …
I’m finishing this letter standing on the Runaway Bridge with a lighter in my hand. I’m going to burn this paper, and let the red-white sparks and gray ashes carry my words, floating down through the night, out over the water, borne by the breeze and current toward you.
Thanks for giving me my life, and for the strength to chase my dreams.
Good-bye, Dad.
Always your loving son,
Michael Mark Wilson
Dear Reader,
Thank you for investing your valuable time with If You’re Reading This. Your support means a lot to me, and I promise to continue to work hard to bring you the best stories I can.
If you’ve enjoyed If You’re Reading This, then you and I both owe thanks to a small army of good people. Since this novel was inspired so much by events and experiences from my life, a thousand times a thousand thanks goes to those who helped shape that life in such a way that enabled me to write this book. I offer heartfelt gratitude:
To my family, with special thanks to my sister, Tiffany, who taught me about younger sisters, and for her hospitality on my many trips to New York.
To my fellow soldiers, the men of the good old 834th Engineer Company, later reorganized as Alpha Company, 224th Engineer Battalion, in Davenport, Iowa. Thank you for your patience with me and for teaching me to be a combat engineer. Thank you for your service.
To the brave men of Delta Company, Second Battalion, 135th Infantry Regiment in Albert Lea, Minnesota, with whom I served in Afghanistan, and especially to those soldiers in the Gentlemen’s Smoking Club. Thank you for helping me get through our time in the desert, for saving my life, and for preserving my spirit. I could not have asked for better comrades. For the rest of my life, I am in your debt.
To Staff Sergeant Matthew Peterson and Staff Sergeant Ryan Jackson for answering hundreds of questions about the Army, and for teaching me what it means to be a soldier. Thank you for your patience with me. Sorry I didn’t take more notes back when I was serving.
To my advisors and fellow writers in the Vermont College of Fine Arts family, too many to name here, but with special thanks to Jill Santopolo, Erin Robinson, Rebecca Van Slyke, and Monica Roe, who helped me through several moments of doubt with this novel, and with double special thanks to Clete Smith, Marianna Baer, Carol Brendler, and John Bladek for their thoughtful feedback on early stages of this manuscript.
To my most excellent agent Ammi-Joan Paquette, for giving me my first Yes and for making my Dream a reality. Thank you for all your support.
Because If You’re Reading This represented a significant emotional and technical challenge for me, I must offer thanks:
To Al Ling, for answering questions about Iowa high school football rules, Joe Osweiler for useful information about Iowa farming, and Georgianna Heitshusen for advice about my characters’ fashion.
To Carsten Parmenter for making sure my small-town Iowa football scenes worked right.
To Kris and Andy Dinnison and the team at Atticus Coffee Shop in Spokane, Washington, for allowing me to move in on Fridays, where I made a number of breakthroughs on this novel.
To Charles Young, Terribeth Smith, Chris Satterlund, and the rest of the fantastic Scholastic sales team.
To Antonio Gonzalez, Emma Brockway, Candace Greene, Emily Clement, Emily Heddleson, John Mason, Elizabeth Parisi, Chris Stengel, Lizette Serrano, Tracy van Straaten, and Annette Hughes.
To Paul Gagne and Bob Deyan for their hard work, professionalism, and fun in making quality audiobooks.
To Rachel Griffiths for the foundational idea behind this book, and for David Levithan’s support, with special thanks to Arlene Robillard and Ann Marie Wong of Scholastic Book Fairs and Book Clubs for their support of this idea, and for the wonder of Scholastic Book Fairs and Clubs.
To Charisse Meloto, the ultimate superhero of publicists.
To Arthur Levine for a wonderful imprint.
To all the wonderful people at Arthur A. Levine Books and Scholastic. Thank you all so very much for always bringing your absolute best to everything you do. It is a joy to work with you.
To Cheryl Klein, my editor and dear friend. Your editorial genius is second to none. More important, you kept the hope alive through all my doubts through the long revision process behind If You’re Reading This. For that, and for so much more, I will be forever grateful.
To my wife and best friend, Amanda, most of all, without whose patience and support this book and everything else would not be possible. Amanda, you are my life.
Finally, you should know that I owe a great deal of gratitude to my late father, Dan Reedy. He taught me about fathers and sons, and with his sudden and untimely death in my youth, he taught me about loss and grief. I could not have written this novel without his inspiration. Years ago, when I told him I wanted to be a writer, he told me, just as Michael’s father tells him, to always hold on to that dream. I did it, Old Man.
Thank you once again, dear reader, for spending time with If You’re Reading This.
Sincerely yours,
Trent Reedy
www.trentreedy.com
TRENT REEDY served in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a year’s tour of duty in Afghanistan. Based upon his experiences there, he wrote Words in the Dust, which won the Christopher Medal. His other novels include Stealing Air, which is also set in Riverside, Iowa, and Divided We Fall, which draws further upon his military experience. Please visit his website at www.trentreedy.com.
&nbs
p; Text copyright © 2014 by Trent Reedy
All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and the LANTERN LOGO are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reedy, Trent, author.
If you’re reading this / Trent Reedy. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: For a responsible sixteen-year-old, Michael Wilson has a lot of problems — his father was killed in Afghanistan in 2005, his overworked and overprotective mother will not talk about their situation, and does not want him playing football, and he has suddenly started to receive letters that his father wrote before his death.
ISBN 978-0-545-43342-6
1. Last letters before death — Juvenile fiction. 2. Families — Iowa — Juvenile fiction. 3. Mothers and sons — Juvenile fiction. 4. Soldiers — Family relationships — Juvenile fiction. 5. High schools — Juvenile fiction. 6. Iowa — Juvenile fiction. [1. Letters — Fiction. 2. Family life — Iowa — Fiction. 3. Mothers and sons — Fiction. 4. Soldiers — Fiction. 5. High schools — Fiction. 6. Schools — Fiction. 7. Iowa — Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: If you are reading this.
PZ7.R25423If 2014
813.6 — dc23
2013045430
First edition, September 2014
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE, BABE
Words and Music by BARRY WHITE
© 1974 (Renewed) UNICHAPPELL MUSIC, INC. and SA-VETTE MUSIC CO.
All Rights Administered by UNICHAPPELL MUSIC, INC.
All Rights Reserved
Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC
Cover art © 2014 by Shane Rebenscheid
Cover design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-0-545-70049-8
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.