There was just one person left I kind of wanted to tell.
55.
In the yard, under the growing pepper tree he’d planted just years ago, Dad was kneeling in the dirt. He wore overalls and gardening gloves, clawing a rake through damp ground. I watched him from my bedroom window. During the night, a storm had finally broken through the humidity, and now the air felt cool and smelled clean from all the rain.
Gunther moaned and put a paw in my lap. He was curled up in bed with me as I took hits off my Ren & Stimpy bong for courage. I scratched his ear and he sighed deeply, resting his head on my chest. I pet his graying muzzle.
“I miss Mom too,” I said into his ear.
She’d been leaving me voicemails. She kept promising postcards to come, handwritten letters. She kept saying that one day, maybe, she’d come home.
Home. What exactly was home for Mom? I thought of all of those fights, all of that anger and pain, all of those times she tore up the house, breaking everything in front of her, throwing more and more gasoline on the fires of our chaos.
All of those times, I’d thought it was just Dad. The angry, shouting monster. I’d thought that as long as he was around our family had no hope.
By the time I came outside to join him, Dad had made great progress on his little makeshift garden.
“Coffee?” I asked, holding up a warm mug for him, the one that had my kindergarten picture laminated on it.
When Dad looked up at me, something struck me about his face. There were the same wrinkles, the same baggy eyes, but there was brightness there, a softness that I hadn’t seen in forever. He thanked me and patted the wet grass where I kneeled beside him. He showed me what he was planting.
I need to tell you something, I thought, as Dad told me all about the balloon flowers and crested iris he had bought at the hardware store. There’s something I want to tell you. Fat pink worms wriggled in the mulch he’d put down, struggling to free themselves from their drowned homes. Dad sipped his coffee, cleared his throat, and put his hand on my back.
“This is nice,” he said.
I nodded. Words were caught and tangled up in me. A thousand sentences ran through my head like ticker tape.
Then he surprised me. “You want to get a pair of rubber gloves on and help me? There’s a couple in the garage.”
We spent the next two hours making flowerbeds and planting seeds. Maybe I would tell him when we were done planting, when we’d gone inside and wiped the mud off our pants and shoes. Maybe I’d tell him later that night over a screening of Boogie Nights, which I’d recently discovered was one of our shared favorite movies. Maybe I’d tell him later that week, or that month, or when I invited Connor over and formally introduced him as someone other than my friend.
Maybe I never needed to tell him at all.
A light drizzle began, but we didn’t stop to go inside. We worked with the earth until our hands were sweaty inside the rubber gloves, our arms sore from raking, our feet tired. We tilled the ground beneath us, and for one long expanse of time, the air between us was free of exhaust fumes.
Resources
The Trevor Project
Chat at thetrevorproject.org
Call 1-866-488-7386
National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline (RAINN)
Chat at rainn.org
Call 1-800-656-4673
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Chat at chat.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Call 1-800-273-8255
Acknowledgments
This book is nearly five years in the making, and it wouldn’t exist in its current form without the help and guidance of some truly incredible people.
To my agent, Saritza Hernández, for being the one to give me and this book an enthusiastic “YES,” and for fighting so hard and for so long to get it into print. I can’t thank you enough. And to Cate Hart at Corvisiero Literary Agency, for reading and offering your insight on one of the earlier drafts.
To my editor, Jaime Levine, for the hours spent brainstorming with me over hummus and pita, and for rooting for this book from the very beginning. You understand these characters so well and helped me take this story to a level I never knew was possible. And to everyone else at Diversion Books who worked so hard on this book: Erin Mitchell, Sarah Masterson Hally, Kayla Park, Angela Man, and the IPS Sales Team.
To my mom, dad, and sister, Jessie: I wouldn’t be where I am today without your never-ending love and support. Thank you for always pushing me to follow my dreams and for always believing in me.
To my amazing beta readers: Tegan, Bianca, and Ajax. And to the wonderful writing communities at Agent Query Connect and Absolute Write. You know who you are! You rock.
To my inspiring, awesome, amazing Electric Eighteens debut support group: seriously, thank you! You’re all so unbelievably talented, and I don’t know what I would have done without you.
And of course, last but obviously not least, to you, the reader. Thank you for holding this book in your hands, in the format of your choice, and for giving me my reason to keep writing. This one’s for you.
About the Author
JULIA LYNN RUBIN is a graduate of The New School’s MFA in Writing for Children & Young Adults program. Her short stories have appeared in publications such as the North American Review, Riprap Literary Journal, and Sierra Nevada Review. She lives in Brooklyn, where she is currently working on her next young adult novel. Follow her on Twitter @julialynnrubin, and visit her online at www.julialynnrubin.com.
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