“Are you sure you have time to be helping me?” I ask, swinging my laptop bag over my shoulder. I saved the most important piece of luggage for last. “You still have to move into your dorm room, too, you know.”
“Yep,” he says. “I have half the stuff you do, it’ll take no time. And I want to be there when you awkwardly attempt to befriend the new roomie. You need me there. I got the whole friend-making thing down. You on the other hand…” He beams at me, grabs the last box of books and my bag from my shoulder, and leaps down the stairs two at a time.
Emma follows Oliver, both signed posters clutched tight in her arms. I give the room one last glance—the half-empty shelves and blank walls, the cleared desk and nightstand, the cup of Ping-Pong balls on the windowsill—and then flick off the light and close my door.
When Oliver first told me he was choosing Temple, too, I panicked, worrying that it was solely for my benefit. But then I remembered what he’d said to me all those months ago—that maybe he should stay close to Emma. Phone calls just wouldn’t be enough. I knew without asking Why Temple? And I was relieved.
The biggest surprise was that we’d both be English majors. The biggest surprise for me, at least. I’d grandly announced it at dinner one night, Dottie and Emma and Oliver packed around our table, and they’d barely looked up from their plates. I’m still not totally convinced about it—it could be a disaster. It’s hard to say whether my work on World After World was a one-off. But if it’s real, if it’s in my blood—if I can feel that glittery magic rush from writing again and again and again…
Then I need to try.
* * *
Saturday, September 5.
Today.
Lemonade Skies: World After World is finally out.
By Thistle Tate, according to the cover, as per usual—only this time it’s true. I wrote an author’s note explaining that I did a lot of rewriting to make the book my own, but that I didn’t change every single word of Dad’s. It felt too dishonest not to give him some credit. But I’d earned my name on that cover.
Books are usually released on Tuesdays, but Zenith made an exception, picking a Saturday to make it feel more celebratory. Special preordered copies started arriving in the mail yesterday. Some bookstores held “Marigold at Midnight” parties last night. I didn’t make any appearances, though. Not yet.
Trade reviews should already be in print and online this morning, and other reader responses could start coming in at any time now. I want to see it all, the good and the bad. My roommate—Jenny, from Maryland, a biology major who seems to have zero interest in Lemonade Skies or any other work of fiction, thank goodness—is away for the weekend visiting her girlfriend, so I have the dorm room to myself.
Dad’s already texted three times, asking how I’m doing and if I’ve read any of the reviews yet. He wanted me to come home for the day so that he and I could “celebrate” together. But I’m not sure if it’ll be a triumph or a failure yet, and I’d rather have a pity party alone. Especially because I don’t think I slept at all last night, not a single damn wink. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Marigold and my mom, together, staring at me from below a lemonade-yellow sky, blue and red and purple stars sparkling bright.
I text Dad that I don’t want any spoilers, at least not until I’ve chugged some mediocre coffee from the cafeteria. Or maybe I’ll take my laptop and head off campus, treat myself to a more decadent cup with some froth in it while I start to read the reviews. It’s a big day, after all. The biggest. I throw on some clothes—a dark orange romper, because I can’t help but be superstitious—and am scraping my curls into a bun when there’s a chipper knock at the door.
I swing it open to find Oliver—Oliver dressed in a neon orange sweat suit, to be precise. Brighter than a highlighter. Brighter than a safety cone. Brighter than a hazmat suit. It’s the most un-black outfit he could ever possibly wear.
“It’s pretty gloriously heinous, isn’t it?” He does a little shimmy shake and then hugs me with one arm, whipping the other out from behind his back to hand me the most gigantic heart-shaped box of chocolates I have ever seen in my life. “Sustenance for your momentous day, since you insist on being a recluse. I have a thermos of hazelnut coffee and double chocolate chip cookies from my mom in my backpack, too. She insisted I come pick them up fresh this morning for you.”
“I told you explicitly to avoid me this weekend because I might be a miserable wench,” I say, pretending to frown, though I’m already jumping on him, both arms wrapping tight around his neck. I breathe him in—he smells like the Flynns’ kitchen, toast and fried eggs and bacon, with a tinge of that chemically new clothes scent. My nose wrinkles. “I can’t believe you actually bought this thing.”
“Of course I did! It’s a good luck charm for my lady!”
I pin myself to him even more snugly and we kiss for a few minutes, and I wonder for the thousandth time why I’m lucky enough to still have him in my life.
We settle in quietly, me at the desk, on my computer; him on my bed, with his iPad. Searching my name and World After World, clicking on the top news stories.
The reviews blur together. The New York Times, the Philadelphia Inquirer, USA Today. I read them all ravenously, repeatedly. It’s hard to wrap my head around the words:
Fresh and exciting, a total emotional roller coaster.
Thistle is young and her writing could use polish, but the spark—the spark is there.
Hands down the best and only way Marigold’s story could have ended.
I still hate that the Tates lied, but—wow, she can actually write! Runs in the blood!
Satisfying, smart conclusion to a series that no one will soon forget.
I may be here, physically, reading words on the screen—but I am also not. I am somehow outside it all, hovering above, shining and twirling and combusting.
We celebrate by ordering falafel sandwiches and chicken kebabs for lunch, though Oliver eats most of mine. I barely even touch the chocolate. Coffee is enough.
At two o’clock, I see the first blogger post about Marigold. On Elisabeth Early’s site, of course. I should let the trade reviews be enough. Elisabeth’s words shouldn’t have the power to make or break me. But I can’t not look. I can’t not care.
I tried to fight my urge to read this final book in the installment—the first that showcases actual pieces of Thistle Tate’s own writing. I told you guys before that you couldn’t pay me to read it. But…damn it, I couldn’t resist!!! Partly because I wanted to see if Zenith was right in their decision to go ahead with what they called: “One of the most stunning series enders we’ve ever had the privilege of publishing.” Partly because I had to know what Marigold would do in the end. (I love to hate that girl.) And maybe even just a tiny, tiny bit because I’d seen Thistle’s videos (as we all have) and, well, I don’t know…I won’t say I forgive them for lying—it’s still a hot mess of crap in my opinion—but I kind of sort of understand. Just a little. Why a girl would lie to make a parent happier. That’s all I’ll say. I do *not* regret that I outed her. I will never regret that because I think you guys deserved to know the truth.
Anyway, moving on: before I get too into the SPOILERS (!!!), I just want to say: all things considered, it was a surprisingly decent story. You know I’ve never loved the writing, and Thistle’s writing doesn’t have the confidence of her dad’s work. But…to be honest? I like that. It worked for me. I felt like I was much more inside Marigold’s head—feeling what she felt, rather than being told about it secondhand. There was a new raw style there. It was earnest and convincing. Probably because—duh!—the author really was seventeen this time. WILD, RIGHT? And it shows. It really does. In a good way. If only she could go back and rewrite the other two books…? Maybe I would have been a fan from day one. Ha!
She goes on to describe the plot twists in great detail, and I just skim throu
gh for now. My eyes keep jumping back to the earlier lines: Surprisingly decent. Raw. Earnest. Convincing. I jump up from my chair and shove the computer into Oliver’s hands. He’d been lounging on my bed, but he sits up arrow straight now, frowning deeply as he registers who wrote the post. But as his eyes flitter back and forth reading, his lips slowly lift. “Wow. For her, this seems like an A-plus right?”
“An A-super-plus.” I’m grinning and punching my fists through the air, dancing in my seat. “This is as good as the New York Times saying the spark is there. She’s my toughest critic by far.”
There’s a steady stream of posts on Twitter and Goodreads and other blogs as the day goes on. People who got the book yesterday or first thing this morning and did nothing but read all day. And the consensus? They like the ending. They love the ending.
There are negative posts, too, and people protesting the book’s existence, but that’s fine—there have always been detractors. I know the story’s not perfect—no story is. I wouldn’t trust a book if every single review was glowing. That’s not real life.
My dad calls crying, and I cry, too. I’m tempted to go home after all, to jump in a cab and pop open more champagne, but—selfishly? I want to celebrate this victory on my own, with Oliver. I’ll see Dad for the official launch. Home is so close, and I love that it’s there—when I need it. But I need to anchor myself in this brand-new Philadelphia. Dad and I both need to move on. We need to learn how to exist apart. To be something to each other, but not everything.
We hang up and soon after Emma calls—reporting on her friends’ enthusiastic reads, since she’d had VIP early access—and then I dive back into the Lemonade Skies wormhole. I’m so lost in it all that I don’t notice when the sky goes dark and Oliver has to flick on the lights.
“Are we ordering dinner in, or could we maybe take a breather and go out?” Oliver asks politely, but I see him gazing longingly at this afternoon’s empty take-out bag. His mom’s cookies have been reduced to crumbs.
“Give me a sec,” I say, tossing him a chocolate. “I just have one more thing to do.”
I scan through the photos on my laptop and find it—a shot of the framed picture from Dad’s office, Mom and me dressed in almost identical yellow sundresses, beaming at the camera. I upload it on Twitter, and write the only caption that makes sense:
Good-bye, Mom. Good-bye, Marigold. I’ll miss you both—always.
Maybe I will see Mom again. Someday. Maybe Dad and I were onto something. I hope we were. Until then, I’ll live. Here and now. But I’ll never stop dreaming of lemonade skies.
I snap my laptop shut—like slamming a door, no peeking back to whatever came before. I get up and kiss my beautiful bright orange boyfriend.
“We can go now,” I whisper. “I’ve said my good-byes.” I close my eyes, waiting for more tears. But they don’t come.
I’m okay.
Marigold’s story may be over. But mine is just beginning.
Acknowledgments
Who knew a third book could be the hardest yet? Oh, Thistle, you were truly a labor of love. Emphasis on labor. There were days (weeks, months) I feared you would never see the light of day. But I couldn’t let you go, and I’m so very glad I didn’t.
A whole bright bouquet of gratitude for my dear agent, boss, and friend, Jill Grinberg, who kept on fighting for this story, and who believed in me and in Thistle all along, even when all I had was a few pages and a wild idea. Thank you to the whole beloved JGLM team, my darling work family: Cheryl Pientka, for live texting through your read, for planting the seed for this story so many years ago, for always being an unwavering advocate; Denise Page, for your sharp and valuable insights and boundless pop culture know-how, and for endlessly providing a listening ear during my various rants and raves; Sophia Seidner, for your fierce negotiations and candor. I feel immensely lucky to share my weekdays with such smart, kind, funny, passionate women.
Thank you, thank you to my marvel of an editor, Margaret Ferguson—you made Thistle who she is today, taking a decent but messy story and turning it into something special. Thank you for your tireless reads and brilliant notes, and for asking the hard questions I was either willfully avoiding or completely oblivious of before you. I’ve lost track of how many rounds we did (!), but I am so wildly appreciative for each and every one of them. I feel blessed every day that you came into my (and Thistle’s) life.
To the rest of Holiday House—I’m honored to be a part of your special list, and so very grateful for all you’ve done in preparing Thistle and Marigold to greet their readers. So many thanks to Terry Borzumato-Greenberg, Faye Bi, Michelle Montague, Emily Mannon, Emily Campasino, Kevin Jones, Kerry Martin, and Miriam Miller. You are truly a dream team. Thank you, too, to my thoughtful and meticulous copy editor, Chandra Wohleber, for giving that final shine, and to the incredibly talented Connie Gabbert for designing such a gorgeous (marigold!) cover.
My medical experts and sister-friends, Dr. Melissa DelVecchio and Dr. Christine Pulice Roy, thank you for keeping my health-and-body facts in check. Your razor-sharp scientific minds never cease to amaze me; your patients are lucky to have you. I’m pretty lucky, too. My beloved Philly girl, Sarah Yaskowski, thank you for ensuring I didn’t embarrass my PA roots with any misinformation, and thank you for being a home away from home in my second-favorite city. And to Rob Spalding, thank you for reading in the final hour when all my perspective was lost, for giving me faith in this story and in my art—I’m so very glad our lives always connect when we both need it most.
To all my infinitely precious, treasured friends and family, new and old, the Detweilers and the Tamberellis, my valley and city loves—thank you always and forever for supporting, encouraging, believing in me. You ground me, but you give me wings. I would fly to any of you in a heartbeat.
Mom and Dad, I will never be able to say thank you enough for all you’ve given and continue to give, so unconditionally and gracefully, but I’ll keep saying it anyway: thank you. You are my heart and soul, my beacons of bright light. Everything I do, past, present, future, is to make you proud. (And don’t you worry! Even as a married lady, I’ll always be your little girl. Promise.)
Danny, my cutie—sorry, couldn’t hold that back!—my partner in all things for the rest of life, thank you for celebrating and cheersing with me on the good days, for holding me while I cry on the bad ones, for loving me, laughing with me, and nourishing my body and soul with delicious smoothies and dinners every day in between. You are my never-ending well of inspiration and joy, my edgy ginger dream love forever.
And lastly, my readers, thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking this journey into the world(s) of Thistle Tate and Marigold Maybee. I am eternally grateful.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 24
