And it wasn’t like, when we said good-bye on Wednesday afternoon, before he drove off to the airport, I felt we had perfectly healed what was broken. We hadn’t. I wasn’t sure we ever would. How can you recover from a shock like that?
But, standing in the fading golden sunlight now, I can feel some of the scars of the summer scabbing over. I can feel the promise of a new beginning. I take another picture.
“Hey, Summer.”
My heart flips over and I spin around, careful not to drop my camera.
Hugh Tyson is standing behind me, hands in his pockets, his gray-green eyes bright behind his glasses. He nods once toward my camera, and then again at the river.
“I bet those are some good pictures,” he tells me in his slightly raspy voice, giving me a small smile.
I wish my cheeks wouldn’t flush, but they do. “Thanks,” I reply, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. I wonder if there will ever come a time when I’m not somewhat nervous around Hugh Tyson. But then I think about how far I’ve come; after everything that has happened this summer, I’m so much braver than I used to be. “Hey, that photo you posted on Instagram yesterday was great,” I add, glancing up.
I still use Instagram to spy on Hugh a little. But mostly, ever since I uploaded my pictures on there the day after my birthday, I’ve used the app as a way to study photography. I’ll try out different filters on my photos, and I follow other photographers’ accounts. Some photographers have followed me back, and I’ve gotten lots of comments on my pictures—especially on my self-portrait in the broken mirror. It’s made me feel proud.
The other thing about Instagram is that I’m friends with Eloise on there. Friends is a strong word for what Eloise and I are right now, of course. But I feel as if I’m getting to know her, bit by bit. She doesn’t post too often; she’s put up some pretty pictures of Dad’s garden—the rosebushes, the red barn, the pool. Yesterday, she posted a shot of a train—she was returning to Paris. They all were, I guess. I’m curious to get a glimpse of her life there; I still want to see Paris one day.
“The photo of Central Park?” Hugh is asking me. “Oh, thanks—I saw that you ‘liked’ it.” His cheeks redden a little, too, which makes my pulse quicken. “It’s good to be back from New York City, though,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I enjoy going there for a few days to see my cousin, but I always end up missing Hudsonville.”
His gaze strays to me, and I bite my lip, trying not to fidget too much, or to read too much into what he’s saying. He said he missed Hudsonville. Not me. Right?
“Where are you headed now?” I ask him, before I can let my what-if? imagination carry me too far off.
Hugh gestures across the street. “Between the Lines, before it closes. I wanted to pick up some books for school.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of school. The start of junior year is close, less than three weeks away. Again, I expect to feel my standard wave of dread, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a little tingle of excitement. “I’ll go with you,” I add impulsively. I haven’t been inside Between the Lines in ages, not since I bought my guidebook for the South of France. That guidebook now sits in my room, on a shelf, having served its purpose.
“Cool,” Hugh says, biting his lower lip as he smiles at me.
I step forward, my camera in hand, and cross the street with Hugh. Our elbows brush together, and my stomach jumps. We walk past Better Latte Than Never, and I peer inside, seeing Ruby at the counter in her brown apron, busy at the espresso machine. I could stop in after I’m done at the bookstore to say hello, but there’s no real need. We’re supposed to picnic in Pine Park with Alice and Inez this weekend, anyway.
Automatically, I reach down and twist my woven bracelet around my wrist; I’ve been wearing one, instead of two, ever since the day after my birthday. And it’s felt comfortable, and natural, like a solid decision does, I guess.
Hugh and I stop outside of Between the Lines. Right in front of us, hovering in midair, a firefly has lit itself up.
“Wow, look!” I say, pointing at the sudden spark, feeling like a little kid.
Hugh’s eyes are also widening with childlike wonder. “Yeah, a lightning bug!” he says.
“Lightning bug?” I echo, cupping my hands to try to catch the firefly. Ruby and I used to chase after them with Mason jars when we were younger, but they always managed to escape. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called that before.”
“It’s kind of a poetic name, isn’t it?” Hugh asks, and I nod, watching as the firefly dims and then brightens again. It is like a little piece of lightning, a little piece of magic, brought down to earth.
Finally I manage to catch the lightning bug between my cupped palms and it hovers there. Then I open my hands and release it, watching as it drifts away, to freedom, switching itself on and off again—dark, light, dark, light.
I wonder briefly if the lightning bug was a sign. But of what? I’m not sure if everything always needs to be a sign. Sometimes things can just be.
I let out a contented sigh. Hugh reaches for the door handle, but before I turn to go in, I glance back at the river. The sun is starting to sink down, into the horizon. The breeze blows my hair across my forehead, and I feel a kind of electricity in the air.
“Hang on?” I say to Hugh, holding up my camera. “I want to take one last picture.”
“Sure,” Hugh says, releasing the door handle and coming to stand beside me. He grins. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt the master at work.”
I laugh and roll my eyes as I prepare to take the photo. But something about Hugh’s teasing compliment, and the nearness of him, and the dazzling quality of the sunset, makes me fumble with the camera in my hand. It slips from my grasp, and I gasp—
“Whew,” Hugh says, reaching his hand out just in time to catch the Nikon before it hits the ground. “Careful, there.”
“Careful,” I echo, a little dazed. I’m aware that, while Hugh was in the process of saving my camera, he reached out his other hand and put it on my arm.
We are suddenly close to each other, so close that I can see the birthmark next to his right ear, and I can study the shape of his full lips. So close that I can almost imagine feeling his heartbeat against mine.
Hugh is looking at me in an intent way, and I’m not sure if it’s the electric August night, or the sunset, or the firefly. Or the fact that I had the summer I did. But suddenly anything seems possible. Something surges in me, a newfound courage, and I find myself tilting my face up, and—
I kiss him.
I kiss Hugh Tyson.
His lips are soft and warm, at once familiar and new. He kisses me back, in earnest, one hand moving up from my arm and along my neck and into my wild hair. I close my eyes and let myself take in how wonderful this feels.
Then we both pull apart, and we are both blushing, and I’m relieved that we are equally flustered and surprised and giddy. My heart is thudding in my ears.
“That was, um, to thank you,” I improvise. “For, you know—the camera thing.”
I reach out to take my Nikon back from Hugh, and he gently closes his hand around mine.
“Thank you for that thank you,” he teases me, smiling.
We stand there, grinning, holding hands on the sidewalk. I don’t want to let go of this moment. I wonder if I should take a picture. But no. I will remember.
Slowly, I turn and start to open the door to Between the Lines, still holding Hugh’s hand behind me. I don’t know what will happen between the two of us. How can I? I don’t know how things will turn out with Ruby, either. Or with Dad, or Mom, or Eloise. I don’t even know what will happen tomorrow. If I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that nothing can be predicted, or planned.
I smile, and my heart lifts as I step into the bookstore.
The possibilities are endless.
The writing of this novel took me a while, and I am indebted to so many people who were instrumental in so many wa
ys. My apologies if, in my post-deadline haze, I forgot to include everyone that I’d wanted to here!
All the thanks in the world go to my editor, Abby McAden, for her patience, humor, and pep talks over fried chicken lunches, and my agent, Faye Bender, for her patience (I require a lot), sage advice, and unwavering faith in me. Without these two amazing women, this book would not exist as it does.
I am very fortunate to publish at Scholastic, which has also been my home as an editor lo these many years. My boundless thanks to the dream team that helped this book come together, especially David Levithan, Ellie Berger, Lori Benton, Alan Smagler, Elizabeth Whiting, Alexis Lunsford, Annette Hughes, Jacquelyn Rubin, Nikki Mutch, Sue Flynn, Betsy Politi, Terribeth Smith, everyone in Sales, Dave Ascher, Tracy van Straaten, Sheila Marie Everett, Caitlin Friedman, Bess Braswell, Lauren Festa, Lizette Serrano, Leslie Garych, Karyn Browne, JoAnne Mojica, Emily Rader, Elizabeth Parisi, Ellen Duda (thank you for the gorgeousness!), Sarah Evans, Jennifer Ung, Jazan Higgins, Anna Swenson, Charisse Meloto, Rachel Coun, Mark Seidenfeld, Yaffa Jaskoll, Paul Gagne, Samantha Smith, Caite Panzer, Janelle DeLuise, Jacqueline Hornberger, Kelly Ashton, Beka Wallin, Siobhan McGowan, Jacquie Bloese for the French expertise, and so many other gifted colleagues and friends, for your contributions, dedication, and passion. Special thanks to Lisa Ann Sandell, as well as Liel Leibovitz, for their hospitality, warmth, and wisdom.
To the Falcitelli family, who hosted me in Aix-en-Provence all those summers ago: merci beaucoup! To Jennifer Clark, Jon Gemma, Robert Flax, Liz Hardenburgh, Martha Kelehan, Adah Nuchi, Jaynie Saunders Tiller, Emily Smith (and the Richmond/Smith family), Nicole Weitzner, and other fantastic friends—thank you for understanding when I disappeared into the writing cave, and for sending me “you can do it!” texts throughout. Daniel Treiman’s brilliant insights, kindness, and support helped and inspired me beyond measure.
My parents put up with me gracefully, and lovingly kept me fed and watered during my sojourns at their house. Extra thanks to my keen-eyed mom, for the lifesaving second reads. I am so grateful to my sister (my other half) and my brother-in-law for always welcoming me with open arms and giving such great guidance, and to my niece and nephew—my two summers—for bringing me sunshine and joy.
Aimee Friedman is the New York Times bestselling author of Sea Change and many other novels for young adults. She has also written middle-grade novels under the name Ruth Ames. She graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Vassar College, and has been a children’s book editor ever since. Aimee lives, works, and writes in New York City, where she spends most of the year wishing it were summer. Visit her website www.aimeefriedmanbooks.com and follow her on Instagram at @aimeefriedmanbooks.
By Aimee Friedman
Two Summers
Sea Change
The Year My Sister Got Lucky
South Beach
French Kiss
Hollywood Hills
Breaking Up: A Fashion High Graphic Novel
A Novel Idea
Short stories in:
21 Proms
Starry-Eyed: 16 Stories That Steal the Spotlight
Mistletoe: Four Holiday Stories
Copyright © 2016 by Aimee Friedman
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-0-545-51807-9
First edition, May 2016
Jacket photography and author photo
© 2016 by Michael Frost
Jacket design by Ellen Duda
e-ISBN 978-0-545-52007-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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