7 Judy Ann Court
Northport, NY 55122
I smile, and let go, my words disappearing into the dark.
AUGUST
SUMMER BEFORE ELEVENTH GRADE
The sand is hot, making it hard for me to touch my bare feet to the ground. I wish I hadn’t left my flip-flops back at the base of the wood stairs.
I yank my sweatshirt off, tie it around my waist, readjusting my sunglasses, which don’t seem to help much against the glare.
A few yards ahead, Mom and Dad walk together toward the ocean, Mom in a flowy white sundress and straw hat, Dad in some ratty old Dylan T-shirt and khaki shorts.
His hair is getting longer again, and he wears it slicked back. I noticed this morning how it’s streaked with gray.
Dad leans into Mom and says something, and Mom throws her head back and laughs. He takes her hand, and she links her fingers through his. I look away, bend down to pick up a shell. A shiny pale peach thing the color of grapefruit ices, a perfect pinprick hole in the top. Good to lace a string through, I think. I slip it in my pocket and keep walking.
Ahead of me, the ocean sparkles. Silver-white flecks of sunlight pop off its surface like soda bubbles. Overhead, gulls swoop and caw. A kite surfer dangles from a yellow-and-cobalt nylon arch.
Everything is effervescent and over-bright; dizzying, as if I’m caught in a dream.
When they reach the water’s edge, Dad turns and calls to me, “You coming, JL?” But I want to stay back, here by myself, looking on.
I hold up a hand, letting them know to go on in without me.
“Suit yourself!” Dad calls, pulling my mother by the arm. When she resists, he scoops her up, throws her over his shoulder, and wades in, her hat falling off, the white of her dress blending into the frothy white foam of the surf.
A flash of memory:
A boy and a girl.
A dusty garage.
A blue bike.
Longing tugs at my chest, but I won’t give in to it. Something else, soon, will take its place.
I take a few steps more down shore, to where the pale fine sand holds some dampness, and sit and watch my parents romp, going under and coming up, again and again.
In my pocket, my phone vibrates. My heart quickens, and I reach in. But I merely retrieve the jingle shell instead. I run my fingers over the smooth, cool promise of its surface.
The phone vibrates a third and fourth time before it stops.
I smile, and inhale deeply, and hold the shell up in front of me to squint at its sharp edges, careful not to block the hole with my fingers, so a pinprick of light can shine through.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It gets harder and harder to write acknowledgments for so many reasons, but mostly because I’m older and more distracted, and bogged down by world events, but also because, often, so much time has gone by from the first writing of a manuscript to the publication of a book. This is not more true than for this book. In fact, I wrote the first draft more than a decade ago (though it wasn’t until my extraordinary editor, Vicki Lame, read it, that it found both its wings and its heart). As such, if I have inadvertently left you out, it’s not because your input didn’t matter, but because my memory grows poorer, as the days chug on by.
To my early readers, who gave invaluable feedback, including Jeff Fielder, E. Collison, and Gila Cohen Shaw (who even bound it into a bookish book), and these three incredible readers who each read more iterations of this story than seems humanly possible: my mother, Ginger; Annmarie Kearney Wood; and Jess Grembos, whose notes changed everything—no, really, everything—unlocking a necessary key to making the whole story work. How is it possible, Jess, that you’ve been reading for me so long you are no longer my target audience’s age?!?;
To LuAnn O’Hair, who has shared both my rough and polished work with her students, and provided constant and invaluable feedback and encouragement, including for this manuscript;
To Nora Raleigh Baskin, my often-writing partner, who read with great care, gave skilled feedback, and, most importantly, convinced me, just on description alone, it was a story worth telling;
To Kelly Hager, who always loved this one best, and is the most star-filled planetarium ever;
To Paul Hankins, who finally shows up in a book just as he should, as a teacher who motivates the otherwise-disenfranchised student to love books and be their best, authentic self;
To all my Facebook friends, who clicked the little red heart button each time I shared an excerpt, or who asked for more glimpses of “the butterfly book,” aka “my porno YA.” Here you go. I hope you swoon;
To my agent, Jim McCarthy—this is four and five together now, Jim, not bad, not bad. Thank you for always reading swiftly, for the abundance of exclamation points before you offer the needed criticism, for the feedback that is incredibly skilled, and for responding to emails on Saturdays, and Sunday evenings, even when I say it can wait until after the weekend; and for always seeing the potential in this one, even when I simply could not;
To the extraordinary Vicki Lame, who didn’t just buy a book when she bought The Memory of Things, but instead truly took on a writer. Me. THIS writer. And, taught her the art of drinking bourbon while she was at it;
To the whole team at Wednesday Books and Macmillan, because it truly takes a book village and I’m deeply grateful: editorial, production, and copyediting: Jennie Conway, Elizabeth Curione, Eva Diaz, Barbara Wild, and Laurie Henderson; cover and interior design, Kerri Resnick and Anna Gorovoy (Oh, my, the absolute gorgeousness!!); marketing and publicity: Brant Janeway, DJ DeSmyter, and Meghan Harrington (without you my books would never find their way to readers’ hands and hearts); and subrights: Chris Scheina, I have to, because I haven’t stopped wondering if it was a typo and, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! Also, to Alexandra Quill and Peter Janssen, in school/library/academic marketing, who have both been constant quiet champions of my work and, more important, to Peter, who was willing to lug Masterpiece to Houston AND let me be Bitsy Richwong Dubrowsky Keys. Who could ask for more than that?
And, lastly, as always, to my family: My parents, Stu and Ginger, my sisters, Paige and Laurie, and, especially, my boys, David, Sam, and Holden (and, yes, Charlie and Boogs), who support me endlessly, and fill my life with the most magnificent music and humor, far beyond my wildest dreams.
Also by Gae Polisner
THE PULL OF GRAVITY
THE SUMMER OF LETTING GO
THE MEMORY OF THINGS
IN SIGHT OF STARS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GAE POLISNER is the award-winning author of In Sight of Stars, The Memory of Things, The Summer of Letting Go, and The Pull of Gravity. She lives on Long Island with her husband, two sons, and a suspiciously fictional-looking dog. When Gae isn’t writing, you can find her in a pool or the open waters off Long Island. She’s still hoping that one day her wetsuit will turn her into a superhero. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I
Late June Before Eighth Grade
Mid-April Tenth Grade
Late March Tenth Grade
September Fifth Grade
Mid-April Tenth Grade
Early March Tenth Grade
Mid-April Tenth Grade
Early Spring Ninth Grade
Mid-April Tenth Grade
Early April Tenth Grade
Late April Tenth Grade
Summer Before Sixth Grade
Late April Tenth Grade
Sum
mer After Sixth Grade
Late April Tenth Grade
Late April Tenth Grade
Late Fall Ninth Grade
Spring Seventh Grade
Late April Tenth Grade
Fall Ninth Grade
Early May Tenth Grade
Part II
Mid-May Tenth Grade
Late August Summer Before Tenth Grade
Mid-May Tenth Grade
Late August Summer Before Tenth Grade
Mid-May Tenth Grade
Late February Tenth Grade
Mid-May Tenth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
Early January Tenth Grade
September 1961 (Nana Tells It Like This…)
Late May Tenth Grade
Spring End Of Eighth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
July Before Fifth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
July Before Fifth Grade The Next Day
Late May Tenth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
Part III
Late May Tenth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
Late May Tenth Grade
Early June Tenth Grade
Early June Tenth Grade
Early June Tenth Grade
Early June Tenth Grade
Mid-June Tenth Grade
Part IV
Mid-June Tenth Grade
Mid-June Tenth Grade
Mid-June Into Late June Tenth Grade
Winter Sixth Grade
Late June Tenth Grade
Summer Before Fourth Grade
Late June Tenth Grade
Late June Tenth Grade
Late June Tenth Grade
Four Hours Earlier
Late June Tenth Grade
Three Hours Earlier
Late June Tenth Grade
One Hour Earlier
Late June Tenth Grade
Fifteen Minutes Earlier
Late June Tenth Grade
Part V
Late June Tenth Grade
Late June Tenth Grade
Part VI
June 29 Summer Before Eleventh Grade
June 29 Summer Before Eleventh Grade
August Summer Before Eleventh Grade
Acknowledgments
Also by Gae Polisner
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Wednesday Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME. Copyright © 2020 by Gae Polisner. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
Cover design and hand-lettering by Joel Holland
Cover illustration of butterfly © Lightspring/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-31223-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-31225-9 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250312259
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: April 2020