If Birds Fly Back

by Carlie Sorosiak

  I stumble through words. “I’m—I’m not Grace.”

  “We know, Linny. Grace is . . . she’s a lot sadder. You may not remember all the times she— Well, it always seemed like she was somewhere else. And I’m so sorry for that, because you two are so close.”

  “Were.”

  “Are. She never left you, Linny. She left this.” She interlaces her fingers in her lap. “Do you . . . I was looking at some old pictures the other day, and do you remember our trip to Minnesota?”

  “Yeah,” I begin cautiously. “I was about five. Didn’t we go to that restaurant where they served moose burgers? And Grace took all the napkins and draped them over her arms like some sort of goddess robe? I remember thinking that she looked so cool.”

  There’s a faint upward movement in the corners of her mouth. “Funny.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because in every photo, she was looking at you.”

  A thought sears into me: For my entire life, I’ve been waiting for Mom’s blessing to reach inside myself and ratchet up the color, but what if it’s been up to me all along? What if I’m my own Color in Chief? This whole time, have I been just as bright as Grace?

  Mom’s neck is going splotchy like a giraffe’s, and in those moments, I picture her alone in our attic, where she keeps the family photos. I picture her holding the Tiger Lily picture in her rubber-gloved hands. Two daughters, down to one—like tearing the photo in half.

  So I lean forward and wrap my arms around her, remembering something Álvaro once said about the camera and dimensionality. Life on a small screen has no texture. It’s smooth as paper. Mom and I’ve gone through so many bumps—mountains, even—but I suspect that no matter how I decide to write my script, our story is far from finished.

  Her touch is soft now, like the sun on my skin.

  Hector’s watching the whole thing unravel—or re-ravel—and that’s when I get an un-freaking-believable idea. I release Mom, check my watch, and blurt out, “If we leave right now, we can just about make it.”

  “What? What do you—?”

  “Dad!” I yell. “Meet us at the car!”

  And that’s how I end up driving two miles over the speed limit in the family Volvo, with Hector (and his terrarium) in the passenger seat and Cass, Mom, and Dad in the back. The near-evening sun is still hot and flooding through the open windows, coating everything in pale-orange glow.

  “This is it!” I say, pulling over five minutes later at a side-of-the-road pond. “She said it was three miles away, and had some benches and— Yes, this is definitely it.” Checking first for alligators (nope, coast is clear), we all step out of the car and onto the freshly mowed grass, dew seeping into my sandals; from the passenger’s side, I lift out Hector and walk to the edge of the water, where the four of us (well, five) gather in a circle.

  “Who wants to do the honors?” I say.

  Dad scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing here, to be perfectly honest.”

  “We’re letting her go,” Cass says, matter-of-factly.

  “I thought Hector was a him,” Dad says.

  “Think about it, Eric,” Mom says, and Dad ahas after a dawning moment.

  Hector is wiggling in my hands, little turtle legs propelling him slowly through the air. I try to pass him to Cass, who says, “No, you do it, Linny.”

  “Yes,” Mom says, then Dad: “You do it, sweetheart.”

  So I kneel down by the shore and guide Hector into the pond. At first he’s unsure of what to do—legs, motionless—but then he takes one or two tentative steps, dipping beneath the warm blue.

  He doesn’t look back.

  When I stand up, Cass threads her arm through mine, resting her head on my shoulder as we watch the water rippling, and I am so happy that she’s here with me—that the glue is sticky between us again. “Do you think his turtle family has written a Journal of Lost and Found?” she says.

  I laugh. “Of course. What would the ‘why’ be?”

  “Kidnapped. Released.”

  “And the notes?”

  She smiles. “People are good after all.”

  THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 17, CONTINUED)

  LINNY turns, sees the split sky, and wanders toward it.

  LINNY (Voice-over)

  What I’m wondering now is whether it’s always been my choice. If all I had to do was take three steps forward and release myself.

  Then LINNY reaches out and finds the edge of the crack, peeling back the sky. On the other side is color, a sharp contrast to the black-and-white world.

  46.

  Sebastian

  “The research into extrasolar planetary systems attempts to tackle a controversial hope—a wish not to be alone in this vast, vast universe.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 303

  When I step off the bus, a hundred people are clumped at the beach, just a few blocks from Silver Springs. The sky is dark, but I swear it’s like walking directly into the sun. Bright lights. The flicker of a huge movie projector.

  Linny pops into view, daisies like satellites around her head. “Surprise!” she shouts, grabbing my hand. “Come on, everyone’s already here.”

  We weave through pockets of people until we see them. On a cluster of multicolored beach towels: Ray and Cass. Linny pulls me down to their level. Their grins stretch so far, they could pass for Cheshire cats. (Except not in a creepy way. Maybe I’m describing it wrong.)

  “What is this?” I ask.

  They all jump in at once.

  “Well, I—”

  “Linny planned it—”

  “OMG, it’s so romantic—”

  Linny holds up her hands and smiles. “I just thought we should do something for Álvaro. And for you.”

  I’m still trying to figure out what the heck’s going on when the screen lights up in neon. And I hear Álvaro’s voice.

  He’s on the beach.

  This beach.

  And he’s just spun around to face the camera, his eyes several feet wide. “Where have you been?” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  A few screws in me twist loose. Okay, more than a few.

  It’s his cameo in Midnight in Miami. A trickle of applause runs through the crowd.

  Then, more Álvaro: still on this beach, except he’s an old man. Wisps of grayish-black hair in his eyes. The camera zooms in on his wrinkly face. “All these little bumps,” he says, “that is life. Given enough time, todo se cura.”

  Everything heals.

  He was saying that to me, wasn’t he?

  I whisper to Linny, “This is from the day he broke out of Silver Springs, right?”

  “Yep. Keep watching.”

  The camera pans to the left—and there I am. Drinking in Álvaro’s every word. And then there’s Álvaro and me playing dominoes. Álvaro and me sharing a Cuban sandwich over lunch. Álvaro and me watching Roman Holiday.

  Álvaro and me, Álvaro and me, Álvaro and me.

  This is the part where something should combust. My heart. My brain. My gut. But it’s the opposite.

  THE THEORY TO END ALL THEORIES:

  In this vast universe, the only positive constant is love. (I don’t feel even remotely alone.)

  The screen goes dark for a second before the opening credits of Midnight in Miami roll.

  Of course. Of course I’m seeing this now.

  Although I’ll never know for sure, I think Álvaro would’ve wanted me to see this movie. Why else would he write the book over again if it wasn’t immensely important to him? If he wasn’t trying to hold on to it? Why wouldn’t I want to be a part of that, a part of him?

  Leaning into my shoulder, Linny says, “I thought if you were going to watch his movie for the first time, it should be here and in this way. On the big screen.” She bites her bottom lip. Dips her eyes down to the sand. “And I went back and forth about whether I should show the new footage of Álvaro, because I didn’t want to sho
w anything he didn’t want seen, but he’s so happy here and . . . Please say something.”

  Hadn’t realized I wasn’t. Thought I was yelling “I love you, Linny Carson” at the top of my lungs. I’m so happy my dad got to meet my girl.

  “You are really something else,” I tell her, kissing her cheek, watching her face light up as bright as the screen.

  I sink into the storyline. Into the neon-lit streets of Miami after dark. I quickly realize that the people who criticize the movie don’t get it. Yeah, it’s about sex. Yeah, it’s about spies and guns and too much alcohol. But mostly it’s about love and all its complications. How stories tangle and intertwine. How things get effed up and then effed up some more. But in the end, Agustina still loves Eduardo, and he’s still head over heels for her.

  Here’s the kicker: in the closing scene, you don’t actually see Eduardo die. It’s implied, but he never closes his eyes. You see him lying in the sand and then only the imprint of his body.

  Something about this is absolutely hysterical to me. I start laughing—then really laughing, gripping underneath my ribs because it almost hurts.

  To the casual observer, I’ve lost more than one of my marbles.

  Linny says, “Um, are you okay?”

  People several towels over shush me. Throw me nasty looks for laughing during the death scene.

  “BUT IT’S NOT A DEATH SCENE,” I want to tell them. “It’s a disappearance scene.”

  I don’t believe in signs, but this sure feels like one. Otherwise, why would I be the only one laughing, the only one who gets it? Score one for a padre-hijo connection.

  As I’m thinking this, I’m also remembering how I barreled out of the hospital without viewing Álvaro’s body. How he wanted a closed-casket funeral. It’s a dangerous thought. But I think it anyway, for just a second. That instead of dying, Álvaro shifted off to a margarita bar to cha-cha-cha until closing time. Maybe—as we’re all mourning him—he’s dangling off a dock somewhere, his wrinkly feet dipping into the water.

  Linny repeats, “You okay?”

  I tell her honestly, “I think I will be.”

  After the rental company packs up the projector and screen, after everyone folds up their beach towels, the four of us stay. In what I now know to be typical fashion, Cass rips off her shirt. Windmills it in the air like a lasso. She’s wearing a hot-pink bikini top. “Anyone up for a late-night dip?”

  Ray pipes up, “Cass! Near midnight. Sharks.”

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport,” she says. “We’ll just dip our toes in.”

  So we all make our way down to the surf. The waves crashing into our ankles immediately bring me back to Álvaro’s breakout day. We stood here, side by side. The three of us—free.

  I can tell Linny’s thinking the same thing.

  “I miss him,” she says. “This is going to sound kind of corny, but I think I needed him this summer, in a completely different way than I thought I did. He broke me out of something.” The others are splashing off to the side, so for a moment it feels like it’s just Linny, Álvaro, and me. “Before you guys,” she continues, voice thick, “I thought I was going to explode.”

  “Have you ever seen an exploding star?” I say. “Because it’s possibly the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see. Kaboom. So many colors.”

  She smiles. Moonlight rolls along the waves.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” she says, gently kicking the water.

  Me neither. “Does that make me a complete asshole? I’m supposed to be a stayer, not a leaver.”

  She interlaces her fingers in mine. “You can be both, just as long as you come back.”

  “About that. I was thinking about spring break in Miami? And maybe you could visit Cal Tech over fall break or next summer or anytime, really, because you will never pick a date when I won’t still be in love with you.”

  “Is that so?” she says.

  I kiss her nose. “It is.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you even sooner than that. I didn’t want to tell you before it was officially done, but”—she takes a massive breath—“I know how I’m going to end my screenplay, so I’ll be touring some film schools in California, and—”

  “That’s awesome,” I burst out, because it is. Because no matter how good things are elsewhere, I know we’ll keep flying back to each other.

  That’s one mystery, solved: how to fix broken pieces. I go over the revised plan once more.

  Step 1: Fly from LA to Miami. ✓

  Step 2: Get to know my father. ✓

  Step 3: Fall in love with a girl. ✓

  47.

  Linny

  My dearest Linzer Torte,

  How’s it going?

  That’s not a good enough opening, is it? I’ll start over.

  If you’re reading this letter, it means I’ve gathered up enough courage to mail it, and I’ve found a place that sells stamps. As I write this, there’s a man outside my window screaming about a flat tire. Gosh, he looks ticked. . . .

  But, I’m procrastinating. Okay.

  You’re probably expecting to hear that I’m sorry. I so wish I could tell you that I was. But the truth is a lot more complicated. I’m happy I ran. No matter how hard it’s been out here, at least I wasn’t there.

  Everything got to be too much. (Again, not good enough, right? But there’s no other way I can explain it.) I told Mom I wanted to go to music school instead of Princeton—maybe she’s told you this by now. Anyway, she flipped. I flipped.

  And I couldn’t handle it. That’s on me, Linny. Not on you. You did nothing wrong—and I wish I’d told you that.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to say to you. What I’ve come up with is this: You are still my sister. You will always be my sister. You are stronger, braver, wiser than you think. You are not the sum of other people’s expectations. Their dreams do not have to be your dreams. You are lovable, and you are loved. I hope that’s enough.

  If you’re not too furious, give me a call sometime, okay?

  All my love to Hector. Tell Mom and Dad I say hi. Parents’ weekend is in September.

  A million warm wishes,

  Grace xoxo

  Her letter arrives the last day of summer, in a plain cream envelope postmarked Oberlin, Ohio. On one corner of the page, she’s drawn clefs, and in another corner is her phone number. That’s the best part, besides knowing she’s okay. Finally, finally I’ll hear her voice again.

  What I’ll say after hello, I have no idea. Maybe I’ll tell her that I understand why she left without me, that she couldn’t fly if I latched onto her heels. Maybe I’ll tell her that I was wrong—instead of trying to draw her back, I should’ve allowed myself the freedom she chose.

  I smooth the letter’s edges on my desk, setting it next to two other things.

  The first is Sebastian’s copy of A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, the one he’s been clutching all summer, the one he placed in my hands before leaving three days ago. He’s underlined, highlighted, and circled a sentence for me.

  Remember to keep your head up in the sky; otherwise, you’ll miss the stars.

  The second thing is Álvaro’s typewriter, which Sebastian insisted that I have. “To finish The Left-Behinds,” he said.

  I think again about what my first words should be, how the end of one story—and the beginning of another—should read. I hadn’t realized this, but on a typewriter you have to press the keys extrahard. You have to mean it.

  My fingers jam each key, until the first direction appears on the once-blank page.

  Enter LINNY into a colorful world.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A billion to the third power thanks to:

  The amazingly talented Claire Wilson, agent extraordinaire, who I’m convinced is actually Wonder Woman. From our earliest meeting, I knew that she understood this story’s heartbeat, and it is infinitely louder and stronger because of her. Thanks also to Rosie Price and
the lovely RCW team.

  I’m pretty much the luckiest author alive to have not one but two extraordinary editors. Thanks to Jocelyn Davies at HarperTeen, whose enthusiasm for this book was matched only by her warmth and insight into its characters; Linny and Sebastian are extremely lucky to have met her. Thanks to Rachel Petty at Macmillan UK, who said during our first meeting that she “just wanted more” of my story; those were perfect words. I have given so much more because of her guidance and passion. Quite simply, this book would not be this book without Jocelyn and Rachel, and I am eternally grateful.

  Everyone at HarperTeen, Epic Reads, and Macmillan UK deserves a loud round of applause. Bea Cross, Kat McKenna, and George Lester—you are excellent humans. To designers Rachel Vale and Aurora Parlagreco, I want to shower you with praise for creating such magical covers! To all my foreign publishers as well, for continuing to make my dreams come true.

  I wrote a good chunk of Birds in the Creative Writing and Publishing MA at City, University of London. Special thanks to my exceptional mentors Clare Allen, Keren David, and Julie Wheelwright, and my writing group. A big shout-out to Lin Soekoe and Helen Pain for their unwavering support and general loveliness—you brilliant, brilliant women!

  A huge thank-you to Alice Swan and Leah Thaxton at Faber & Faber for cheering on my successes and providing unparalleled guidance. To Grace Gleave for her kindness and encouragement.

  The UKYA community is spectacular. Truly, truly spectacular. Thank you especially to Claire’s Coven for welcoming me with open arms, and to my fellow 2017 debuts for sharing this journey with me. Rebecca Barrow, Ali Standish, Kristina Perez, Rebecca Denton, Alice Broadway, Vic James, Cecilia Vinesse, Lisa Lueddecke, Natalie C. Anderson, Ruth Lauren, and Katie Webber—you have no idea how much our ongoing emails mean to me. On the other side of the pond (and in Australia!), all the emoji hearts to Kayla Olson, Anna Priemaza, Tanaz Bhathena, Jilly Gagnon, Cale Dietrich, and Kate Watson.

  I’ve also had the extreme good fortune of meeting a group of veteran writers who are basically kick-ass in every way. Thanks to my mentor Emery Lord for her down-to-earth grace, to Alwyn Hamilton for talks over wine, to Jeff Zentner for inspiring not only me but also a generation of readers, and to Sara Barnard and Harriet Reuter Hapgood for Mexican food and just being awesome. I’m lucky to know all of you.