by Emma Young
“Maybe there’ll be a war somewhere,” I say, as brightly as I can, hoping he knows I’m not serious.
He nods. “Maybe some celebrity will have a sex change. Maybe there’ll be a new diet.”
“So eventually, I’ll slip into old news and every so often, someone will think: We should do a follow-up on that Frankenstein girl. And I’ll be . . .” I look away. Down. At the grass, wet with the night’s rain. Then out, past Joe’s shoulder, at the harbor and the skyscrapers, which are beginning to take clearer shape through the gloom.
“. . . You’ll be what?” he says.
“I don’t know.” Deep breath. “Maybe somewhere with you.”
Silence.
At last, I let myself look at him. My heart’s jumping, but he’s smiling. By far the brightest light around is in his eyes.
From behind us, hidden by the hospital, comes the rattle of metal wheels across concrete. A delivery being pushed for unloading. A faint siren grows louder and louder. A gull flying overhead sounds its empty cry. I listen to all of this—the familiar noises of Dixon-Dudley Memorial—and to the throb of my pulse in my head.
“Ready?” Joe says.
I nod.
And so I sit back down on the bench. Joe sits beside me.
I reverse the direction of my phone’s camera, so I’m looking at my face in the screen.
Even this dim light is overexposing my features. I don’t see the girl in the picture in the article, squinting in the sun. Or the girl in a tight gray dress, microphone in hand, photographed during her awesome gig. And I don’t see in my eyes who I used to be, either. Which seems right. We’ve both changed.
I don’t know what’s going to happen after I send off my story. I have no real idea where I’ll be in a week, or a year.
But I’m going to try to become the person I want to be.
I’ll also try to do what Sylvia’s dad asked—love myself.
More than that, I’m determined to make the most of everything, for us both.
I lean against Joe and take a deep breath. My hand steady, my gaze focused on the screen of my phone, I start to speak.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you—
To Julia Churchill, my agent in the UK—without your help and support, this book wouldn’t even exist. To James—your support and belief were crucial. To Allison Hellegers, my agent in the US, for your enthusiasm, and for knowing exactly who to go to with a flawed manuscript. Which brings me to Anne Heltzel. I’m extremely lucky to have you as my editor.
Thank you also to the staff and students at Lexington High School, and to Joe Douglas, my first teenage reader.
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