by Dawn Metcalf
After some shameless begging and a talk with Consuela’s physical therapist, her parents had agreed to give back some of her lost independence as well as her credit card. This solo shopping trip was a precious gift of trust. Baby steps, the outpatient counselor assured her. Baby steps. Consuela still had to take the bus to school and the mall, her driver’s license suspended until the doctors could prove that she wouldn’t black out at the wheel.
Consuela knew that wouldn’t happen, but couldn’t share why. Unless she removed her skin, she’d remain part of this world. In the meantime, she’d have to suck up the bus rides and the every-twenty-minute parental check-in texts. As annoying as it was, it felt good to be home and loved.
That’s why she could never tell her parents that when the tug of need was strong, she’d curl up in her closet and remove her skin so that she could go rescue some faraway stranger and slip back into her room, hoping that her lifeless body would go unnoticed until she returned. It was risky, but it was the best she could do. Consuela belonged to both worlds now, and she had responsibilities in each.
A skin of autumn leaves, another of ash, and a third, glittering one of spider silk hung in her closet. She’d kept the original skin of fire that crackled in its garment bag, and she’d undone the skin of butterflies so that they’d soared out of her window in a calliope of wings. It amazed her that no one in the real world saw these things. She, herself, couldn’t see them unless she returned to her self as Bones.
Consuela. Bones. Angel Bones.
She smiled down as she made her way down the clothing aisles, riffling her fingers through the long rows of jeans. She felt the ones she was wearing rode too low on her hips; that fashion was so over. One cannot live on impossible skins alone!
Draping two pairs over her left arm, Consuela headed for the dressing rooms. She’d eventually find something that fit. They were just clothes. This was just skin. Today was just one day of her life, which was so much bigger than now. Consuela liked knowing exactly why she was here, what she was here for, and that no one else knew her secret double life. She could be a Guardian Angel with the benefit of coming home for dinner.
Consuela shut herself into the narrow stall and began unbuttoning, but stopped and stared at the mirror. Her pulse fluttered. Thought she saw something there . . .
She placed her hand on the cool glass, twisting it at the wrist to cover the image of her own eyes.
“No peeking,” she whispered.
His reflection smiled back.
Acknowledgments
There is not enough chocolate in the world to thank everyone who helped make this book possible. Thanks to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who made the stars align, and to my agent, Michael Bourret, for heaps of sanity and sage advice. I am fortunate to have an incredible crew at Dutton, including Lisa Yoskowitz, Liza Kaplan, Emily Romero, Anna Jarzab, and Christina McTighe. Special thanks goes to Jeanine Henderson and Alberto Seveso for my beautiful cover and Rosanne Lauer and the copyedit team for making the words inside beautiful, too.
Before it ever got to Dutton, this story went through amazing critique partners, Susan VanHecke, Gayle Jacobsen-Huset, Robin Prehn, Kaelyn Porter, and Debbie Smart, as well as Angela Frazier, Maurissa Guibord, and Amy Henry, (with extra appreciation to Debi Faulkner, Jody Mugele, and Rusty for the scary early Tender, and to Jennifer Carson, Adrian Croft, and Deirdre Mundy for the scarier later version of same). Huge thanks to friends with red pens: Jenny & Matt Bannock, Jeremy Bernstein, and Michel Owen Miller who were there when it was barely skin and bones. And I would have never made it without my online writer communities including the Debs, the Tenners, the Elevensies, #kidlitchat, #YAlitchat, The Enchanted Inkpot, SCBWI, and the Blueboarders—especially those who appeared in real life: Sarah Jae-Jones and the Gothic Girls. You are all worth my weight in Lindt.
For lifelong encouragement, thanks to Mom, Dad, Corrie and Adam, Marilyn, Harold, David, Shari, and my “dojo family”: there is no way I could have ever had the guts to pursue my dream without you. To long-time friends Jennifer Bagdade, Steve Deasy, and Ranjan Srivastava, there aren’t enough words (which is really saying something)! For inspirational teachers: Mr. Haberland, Mr. Larsen, and Mr. Philyaw; Grandma, Grandpa, Bubbe, and Papa who always believed in what I was meant to do—you were right. As always.
Finally, a heart full of thanks to my Better-Than-Boy friend, Jonathan, without whom my dream would have stayed nicely tucked into a drawer, and to my darling children who forgave Mommy’s “one-more-minutes” and gave me hugs and kisses anyway. To you, the reader, who is holding this book, and to G-d for granting me this gift and this day:
Thank you.