by David Arnold
“. . . possible symptoms of sudden discontinuation of Aripapilazone may include emesis, lightheadedness, extreme nausea, diaphoresis . . .”
Extreme nausea: a side effect of both taking the pill and not taking the pill. Like the virtuous villain, or the blemished hero, Abilitol is just another in a long line of grays.
I stare ahead, and, admiring the well-kept lawn, consider the madness of the world. Beck and Dad both blame themselves for what happened to their sisters. And they’ve spent years trying not to make the same mistake twice. But Dad is searching for something inside of me that may not have been there to begin with. And if he’s right—if there is some dark thing down there—I need someone on my team who understands the fictional side of life. Someone who understands the difference between suites and concertos. I need a bear in the office, not a snake in the grass.
I need a Makundi.
I unscrew the childproof lid, roll down my window, and hold out the bottle. I’m sure there are people out there who rely on Abilitol to get through the day. Hell, it’s probably saved lives. But thinking back to the last place I swallowed a full dose, bowing to the kings of habit on that empty bus in Jackson, I’ll say this: I’m seeing things much more clearly these days.
Slowly, surely, I tip the bottle upside down, emptying the pills right there in front of the militant magnolias. It may be difficult for a while; I may even go through withdrawal. I may need to call the Irish-in-hiding himself, the good Dr. Makundi, for a referral. But it’ll be worth it. Because this is my life, the only one I get. And if it’s a choice between a life Abilitoled, or a life full of Life . . . well, that’s really not a choice at all.
At the end of the long driveway, Kathy turns on the blinker and looks out her window. “Let me know when it’s clear on your end, Mim.”
God, that sky is a perfect cobalt blue. A natural, pure, new blue. I’ve never noticed how beautiful that blue is until now.
“Is it clear?” asks Kathy, still staring out the driver-side window.
I turn sideways in my seat, look at the back of her head, and realize—my stepmother is a complete stranger. I don’t know the first thing about her, not really. And I’ve never told her anything about myself, for that matter.
“Mim? We clear?”
I am Mary Iris Malone, and I see all things new.
“I’m blind,” I whisper. “In my right eye.”
Because sometimes a thing’s not a thing until you say it out loud.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Mom and Dad, for, among other things, showing me a functional family well enough to write a dysfunctional one. To the entire Arnold and Wingate clan—I would be lost without your patience and support all these years. I have the best family in the history of families.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Dan Lazar, whose editorial eye and literary prowess are unrivaled. To Torie Doherty Munro, Cecilia de la Campa, Angharad Kowal, Chelsey Heller, and my entire family at Writers House, I am forever indebted to you for breathing life into Mim.
Ken Wright, you are my “ideal editor.” This book would be a mess without your wise counsel and guidance. Alex Ulyett, a thousand thank-yous for the use of your brilliant brain. I owe you both more than you know. To Theresa Evangelista and Andrew Fairclough, for producing the work of art that is this cover; Eileen Savage, for both the interior design as well as Mim’s fabulous illustrations; and Tricia Callahan, Abigail Powers, and Janet Pascal, for copyediting—and everyone at Viking/Penguin who made my first publishing experience an absolute joy—THANK YOU!
Writing community > Writing. And so I thank my Greater Than: my critique group—Ashley Schwartau, Josh Bledsoe, and Erica Rodgers—for making this book what it is; my good friend and critique partner, Courtney Stevens, for I-don’t-even-know-where-to-start (CYB!); Jessica Young, Lauren Thoman, Kurt Hampe, and Tiffany Russell, each of whom graciously offered help and whose fingerprints are all over these pages; Ruta Sepetys for her early read and support (I got Ruta’d!); Becky Albertalli, Jasmine Warga, and Adam Silvera, for the 1,000,000,000 emails, the Oreos, the roll-out beds, and for joining me in this canoe without a paddle (#beckminavidera 4-life); Rae Ann Parker, Kristin O’Donnell Tubb, Sharon Cameron, CJ Schooler, Victoria Schwab, Genetta Adair, Daniel Lee, Steven Knudson, Dawn Wyant, Sarah Brown, Helene Dunbar, Paige Crutcher, Patsi Trollinger, and my entire SCBWI Midsouth family.
Special thanks to: my Champion brothers across the world (champions unite!); my sister-in-law, Michelle, for the veterinary terms and general YA awesomeness; Rachel Smith and Smitty’s House of Pain, and all the crazy ladies at Glen Leven; Mim Brumley (because duh); Carl Meier (a true-blue Carl) and all at Black Abbey for the “inspiration”; Daniel Meigs for his photo skillz; Stephanie Appell and all at Parnassus Books; Amanda Connor at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lexington; Jeremy and Tiffany Lee; Seth Worley; Stephanie McGuire, LMSW, and Sarah Hummel, LCSW, for their nonpareil professional guidance. A HUGE thank-you to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, whose Work-in-Progress grant, wisdom, and community shaped me as a writer. And a bajillion thanks to you, the reader, without whom none of this would matter.
Elliott Smith provided more than a soundtrack while writing—he taught me that an honest voice is more compelling than a pretty one. I also owe Alexandre Desplat, Slowreader, Bon Iver, Nick Drake, M. Ward, and Jon Brion a debt of gratitude for creating the perfect notes for Mim. And a special thank-you to the legendary David Byrne for permitting me to use his words where mine simply would not do.
Thanks to my son, Winn, who was, unwittingly, the catalyst behind this entire book.
Lastly, to my wife, Stephanie: I am 110 percent positive that some mad scientist created you in a lab to perfectly compliment the specifications of a David Wesley Arnold. You have loved me real.
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