We pile our clothes and line up at the edge of the dock to jump with the other idiots. To be fair, some of the slightly less idiotic among us are down on the sand, so they just have to run in the water, dip their toes, and run out. Lindsey insists they’re wimps.
“Bunch of pussies!” Jared yells at them, rubbing his arms to keep warm.
“Excuse me,” Lindsey says, “but I happen to think that particular bit of anatomy is pretty fabulous. If you really want to insult those guys, maybe you should try something else.”
“Yes ma’am.” Jared tips a pretend hat to her, then yells toward the beach, “Bunch of dicks!”
I peer down at the water, which seems an abyss, even though I know it’s not very deep here. My toes hang over the dock’s edge. I’m cold, but there’s freedom in this sort of cold. There’s a what the hell to it that makes me want to spit in the face of cold and fear and everything else standing between me and the life I want.
Mark sprints down from the parking lot, panting, in green floral swim trunks and a navy swim shirt. “Am I too late?”
“Come on,” Charlie says, and Mark falls in line beside him.
Lindsey grabs my left hand. With the right, I grab Charlie’s.
I glance over to Mark, who has found his breath and is staring down the water like some badass in a Western.
I squeeze Lindsey’s hand. “I’m your huckleberry,” I say.
She laughs. “Oh, yes, you are.”
Jared, on her other side, holds out his hand to her, and she surprises all of us, Jared included, by taking it.
“ARE YOU PEOPLE READY TO GET WET?” the deejay screams into the mic. The crowd cheers.
I feel my heart pounding, I am alive and I am stupid “TEN… NINE…” and I am free “EIGHT” and I love “SEVEN” my friends and “SIX” my family and love “FIVE” dancing, even if I can’t dance, and running “FOUR” and I’m annoying and it’s good “THREE” that I’m annoying because “TWO” we are alive “ONE!”
We jump, a high arc, holding hands, and splash down into the ice-cold water. And Holy Hell! My heart is exploding at the same moment it squeezes the entire lake and the starlit sky and the park and everyone in it into a tiny grip of blinding light. I flail my way to the surface and gasp for air.
In a second, I will pull myself out of the water. I will rub off with a towel and hug Lindsey and Charlie and maybe Jared or Mark. I will wrangle into my clothes and spend the night warming up under quilts in someone’s basement or garage, listening to music and talking and who knows what. But for now, this—this moment in the cold lake, intensely alive, in love with my life—is enough.
Looking for the latest news on your favorite YA authors?
Want early access to new books and the chance to win advance copies?
Bring the (book) party to your in-box with the NOVL e-newsletter:
theNOVL.com/enewsletter
Join the NOVL community:
theNOVL.com
Twitter.com/TheNovl
Instagram.com/TheNovl
Facebook.com/TheNovl
Acknowledgments
This was not a book I sought to write.
I was hard at work on an entirely different manuscript when this one overtook me. I had read in the paper about a lost girl—found days later, dead. The brutality of her murder, the senseless destruction of her life, left me outraged and grieving. Worst of all, I had seen equally horrific events play out in newsprint a dozen times before with different names and details, and I was gutted by the certainty I would read of such horrors again.
That story broke something in me. So I did what I do when I’m broken. I cried, consumed junk food, then picked up a notebook and pen.
How is a young woman supposed to find her way in a world where so many men quite literally want to kill her? And in many cases, not even to kill her specifically, but to kill any girl who happens to occupy the space she is in? Such a threat, both intensely personal and oddly generic, seems impossible to navigate.
I genuinely love the girls in this book, fictional though they are. I love Charlie and Jared, too, and Jamie’s mom. I love these characters’ resiliency and courage and ability to find some good to aim their lives toward. But those qualities in my fictional characters are a mere trick of the light, the dimmest afterimage, when compared to the astounding grace of the real women and men who are able to live lives of goodness (and in some cases even forgiveness) in the aftermath of violence against their loved ones. I do not believe I have such grace within me, and I hope I never have cause to find out.
It also feels necessary to mention how deeply I respect the efforts of groups like Help Save The Next Girl, which works in my own community to prevent violence against young women.
There are many people to thank for their contributions to this book’s existence.
Emily Mitchell, my dream agent, has stuck with me patiently throughout the process. She has given me space to take risks, and she continues to support my outlandish ideas long after others might have given up on them. In short, she is exactly the person I need in my creative life, and I sincerely feel my luck in having her on my side.
I am equally fortunate in my editor, Nikki Garcia, whose driving force and keen insights have been invaluable. The fact that she saw something worthy in my manuscript at the exact moment that I had utterly given up on it was, quite frankly, life-changing for me. Her guidance has made this a much better book than what landed on her desk many months ago, and I thank her for her willingness to shepherd it through its various drafts.
I also wish to acknowledge the excellent work of the Little, Brown and Company copyediting, marketing, and design teams—specifically, Michelle Campbell, Elisabeth Ferrari, Stefanie Hoffman, Sasha Illingworth, Annie McDonnell, Victoria Stapleton, Angela Taldone, and Valerie Wong.
Thanks to Madelyn Rosenberg for writing Jared’s song. (For the record, Jared’s tongue-stud is for her.) Thanks also to Cece Bell, from whom I blatantly stole “Vessel of Sweet Relief.” Madelyn and Cece’s encouragement and good advice have been guiding lights in my life.
There are many who took time to read my work in its various forms and offer excellent feedback and encouragement. They include Cece Bell, Catherine Cone, Tom Cook, Nicole Foley, Patrick Knicely, Thomas Locicero, Chrissy Mortlock, Cindy Perdue, Madelyn Rosenberg, Amelia Ross, Angie Smibert, Kristi Stultz, Cyndy Unwin, and Julie Walsh. Thanks also for the contributions of Karen Adams and Lois Roach, who aided my research.
I am supremely grateful for the support of my family. They have all been excessively patient when I let everything else in our lives go to seed while focusing intently on some stage in the writing or revision process. My daughter was especially helpful, in that she read drafts, offered valuable suggestions, and helped care for her siblings (and me) when needed. Her own creativity has been an inspiration to me. I also wish to thank my mother- and father-in-law, who are astoundingly generous in their support of both my family and my personal endeavors.
Most of all, though, I want to thank my husband, who has been my champion in every sense of that word. He has been there each step of the way with whatever I needed, be it space, time, a sympathetic ear, moral support, lunch, chocolate, etc. He has put up with me holing up for days to work on this book, he has read every page and offered smart advice and encouragement, and he has continued to believe in me, even when I wasn’t so sure.
Finally, I want to send a hug and a shout-out to anyone who has gotten this far in the book. It seems unlikely that after three-hundred-some pages, you’re going to be reading acknowledgments, but if you are—wow! Thanks!
ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
How She Died, How I Lived Page 26