The Adventures of Mei
Current location: Home, waiting
>> I’ve read the tweets and posts online. I know teachers died. I know what people say about Dad. But he taught me to read the hope between the lines. So I won’t believe them. Not yet.
Dad always told me there are more stories in the universe than stars in the sky. And in every story, there’s the light of hope. That’s why the seniors sent lanterns up to the sky—to make sure the darkness is never absolute.
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Epilogue
11:59 P.M.
SYLV
Fareed broke into the school tonight. After it was cordoned off and the officers retired for the night, he sneaked in through the roof—the same way we tried to get out and didn’t, but this time, he was prepared.
When he crawled out of the school again, he texted most of the senior class, and we spread the news through brothers and sisters, friends, neighbors, acquaintances. Not one us slept—not one of us could. So in the middle of the night, we found our way to Opportunity. In cars, on bikes, by foot. We picked up everyone who didn’t have transportation.
It could be any other first day of the semester, the way the cars converge on the road to the school. The way the students stream out. The moon shines bright in the clear night sky, lighting up the field around us.
All of us.
Students and teachers. Opportunity.
But we aren’t complete. When we reach out to join hands, we’re all aware of the thirty-nine dead. Of the twenty-five in the hospital.
So many lost. So many broken.
Autumn is having surgery on her leg. She won’t go to Juilliard for her audition. She might not dance again or she might work hard and heal and try again next year. Her dad won’t stop her now. He’ll never touch her again.
My Autumn would fight to dance, but after today, I don’t know anymore.
The road has tripped her up, like it has us all. We don’t belong to the rich, good earth, and we don’t belong to the horizons.
We are tied to Opportunity, and maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We plant our seeds here to take root and blossom.
Fareed stands on my left and squeezes my fingers so tight. His lips move in silent prayer. I open my mouth and close it again. I don’t know what to say. I simply watch as our circle grows and more prayers are offered into the night. Someone brought candles, and we all take one. We take them for the missing too.
I reach out, and for the briefest, most heartbreaking moment, I expect Tomás’s callused hands to wrap around mine and his thumb to tickle my palm. I expect him to reach over and tug at my hair and whisper, “Let’s hide the candles.”
I’d elbow him and hiss at him to not to be such an idiot.
Ah, Dios, I’d give anything to call him an idiot one more time.
The hand that meets mine is slender and strong. The girl beside me glances my way. A girl who once stood up for me at junior prom, when all this started. Or perhaps it started long before then.
Claire smiles politely. Her eyes are haunted by the loss of a brother too.
It’s a new kinship between us.
Silence falls as the prayers cease, and all eyes turn to Fareed.
He speaks, his accent coloring his words. “We are not better because we survived. We are not brighter or more deserving. We are not stronger. But we are here. We are here, and this day will never leave us. Nor should it. We will remember the wounded. We will remember the lost.”
He walks to the center of the circle where his bounty waits for us. More than three dozen lanterns are spread out over the grass. It’s not time for the Lantern Festival yet. No bonfire, no marshmallows, no stories to tell.
Only this story of the thirty-nine we lost. With every name Fareed reads, a student steps forward and picks up a lantern. When the name of a teacher is called, other teachers follow our lead. Near the end of our list—“Matt”—my neighbor retrieves a lantern.
When Tomás’s name is called, so do I.
I return to the circle and offer Fareed a wrinkled letter, tightly rolled, to use as a fuse, to burn with the memory of today. He smiles softly as he lights it. “We will remember the thirty-nine tonight. We will remember them tomorrow. We will remember them for all our tomorrows. And there will be many tomorrows; there’ll be thousands of them. So let’s make them good ones. We are Opportunity, and we will not be afraid. We are Opportunity, and we will live.”
The paper smolders, but it’s enough to light the fuses. Other sparks light up the darkness. The lanterns get lit one by one. Slowly, the words on the paper lanterns become visible. Mr. Jameson always asked the seniors to write their hopes and dreams on the fragile paper. These are not wishes but names.
I stare at Tomás’s name as my vision swims with tears. For a few precious seconds, I’m alone with my lantern and my brother.
The lantern gently tugs upward. It’s warm enough, ready to be released. I hold on for one more moment. Then, around me, other lanterns are released. They float over our heads into the darkness, toward the promise of a new day.
I take a deep breath and caress the rice paper between thumb and finger.
And I let go.
Acknowledgments
My world is richer for the stories it holds, and my life for the community those stories have brought me. Thank you to the authors whose books taught me so much about what it means to be human. To the writers who shared their journeys, manuscripts, and endless support with me. To the readers whose boundless love makes it all worthwhile. And especially:
To Dahlia Adler, Sarah Benwell, Corinne Duyvis, and Hannah Weyh. This Is Where It Ends would not exist without you. Thank you for friendship, support, insight, excitement, adventures, chats, guestrooms, heart, and inspiration. You make my world a better place.
To my agent, Jennifer Udden, who is the fiercest book champion anyone can wish for. I’d say I’m sorry for making you cry on the subway, but that’s really not true. Thank you for believing in me. I’m so happy to have you—and everyone at DMLA—in my corner.
To my editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan, who loves these characters as much as I do and sees right to the heart of the stories I want to tell. Working with you is nothing short of a dream come true. Thank you for your understanding and for pushing me to become a better writer.
(Stroopwafels forever for both of you!)
It’s a pleasure and a privilege to be a part of the Sourcebooks family. Thank you to everyone who has made me feel so very welcome. Dominique Raccah and Todd Stocke for their passion and support. Sarah Cardillo, Kelly Lawler, Nicole Komasinski, Isaiah Johnson, and Elizabeth Boyer for their care in the creation of this book. Heather Moore, Beth Oleniczak, and Alex Yeadon, for their creativity, enthusiasm, and general awesomeness. Chris Bauerle, Valerie Pierce, Helen Scott, Sean Murray, Heidi Weiland, and Sara Hartman-Seeskin for their help in bringing this book to the world. And everyone I had the pleasure to interact with or meet.
Along the way, there have been many people who helped me shape this book, and their generosity is humbling. I am so grateful to Hay Farris, Caroline Richmond, and Cindy Rodriguez, who fielded questions on a myriad of topics, and especially so to Alex Brown, who graciously shared relevant experience with the trauma of shootings. What I did right was because of them; any mistakes I made are squarely on me.
Francesca Zappia, Brenda Drake, Erica Chapman, Darci Cole, Jaye Robin Brown, Natalie Blitt, and Jen Malone all read versions of this story and offered invaluable feedback. Thank you for your grace and your honesty.
Just as invaluable was and is the support of amazing writer friends, Katherine Locke, Rebecca Coffindaffer, Maggie Hall, and Gina Ciocca. Thank you adventures in New York / Edinburgh / Paris / Atlanta, for cheering up so many days, for more than I can say.
It’s an honor to be on this journey and to sh
are it with so many talented people. I wish I could name each and every one of you. Thank you so much for being here.
A special shout-out to #TeamCupidsLC, for rallying around this story, to the Sweet Sixteens, for our debut year to come, and to Alex Lidell, who took me on the New Jersey road trip where the idea of This Is Where It Ends originated.
Last but certainly not least, all of this would be meaningless if it wasn’t for the support of my closest friends and family, who have been with me from the start. To Lotte, Lian, Hilda, and Rachael. To my sisters, my nephew, and my mother. This one is for you, with love.
About the Author
Marieke Nijkamp is a storyteller, dreamer, globe-trotter, geek. She holds degrees in philosophy, history, and medieval studies and is an executive member of We Need Diverse Books, the founder of DiversifYA, and a founding contributor to YA Misfits. She lives in the Netherlands. Visit her at www.mariekenijkamp.com.
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This Is Where It Ends Page 18
