by Amy McNamara
I stand so still when I read her words, I think for a minute if someone came through here they might not even see me. If only I could become invisible like that.
Need u. I’m desperate.
I check the time on my phone. The background image comes into focus. It’s a photo of Emma and me from Halloween. We went as Rebecca and Enid from Ghost World. Yes, I was Enid. I used fabric markers to make my own Raptor shirt. Emma smolders at me from behind my apps, the perfect Rebecca.
Evie?
I check the time again. The other two candidates are probably both in there by now. Maybe they can go first.
On my way.
I run down the stairs.
Floating like Faraway Moons
WHEN I PUSH OPEN THE DOOR to the third-floor bathroom, Emma’s sitting in the window, on top of the heater, with her shoes up on the sink. The window is flung open high and wide behind her. They’re supposed to be locked, only able to open like four inches or so, but Bly’s in an ancient building and this one’s been broken forever. They keep painting it shut, but as soon as it’s warm out, people chip it free.
“Hey . . . ,” I say, not wanting to startle her. “You’re back.”
She lifts her head and her face is all red and splotchy. Her eyes are swollen to small slits.
“They’re pulling me out,” she says, blowing her nose into a ragged tissue.
“What?”
“My parents. That’s where we’ve been. A friendly little tour of schools for crazy girls. They’re meeting with the dean and Dr. Holmes right now. I’m done here. They’re yanking me and sending me to Our Lady of Screw-Ups in the mountains of California.”
The news stops everything in me, and I sag back against the door for a second. I don’t like the look in her eyes. I step closer. There’s so much empty space behind her, so far to fall.
She lifts her hand like a cop. “Stop. I know you didn’t do it, at the gallery. But tell me you did something, at least? Made her squirm? She felt some pain?”
She pulls the hair tie from her ponytail and runs a hand through her hair to shake it out. All I can think is, Please don’t fall.
Em nods like I’ve spoken.
“Oh. You totally got charmed by her again, didn’t you?”
She turns sideways, pulling her legs up onto the radiator, and whips her head toward the gaping space. She’s silent a minute and I inch closer.
“You don’t care about me anymore.” She sounds so sad.
“That’s not true.” But the rest is out of my mouth before I can think. “If anything I’ve been caring too much.” I set my bag on the counter and keep creeping closer.
“Stay back,” she says, still turned away. Her voice is tiny in all that open air.
I think I can reach her if I lunge.
“Em—” I struggle to keep my voice calm.
“I mean”—she turns to look at me again, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand—“it was a lunatic idea, right?” she says, nodding. “We would have been arrested pulling a stunt like that . . . it’s not like we’d ever have gone through with it, but I thought you’d at least—”
It makes me sick, how ready I was. I cut her off.
“That’s what’s so messed up, Em. I almost ruined someone’s work and hurt a bunch of people. It was selfish, and stupid, and destructive, and I was still going to do it for you.” My voice breaks.
She narrows her eyes at me, straightens her back.
“You put people on pedestals and pretend they’re perfect, but then you can’t bear it when they turn out to be who they are, who they’ve always been.”
Her words cut into me, but I don’t care. Not with her sitting in the open window like that.
“Em, will you please get off the radiator and close that window?”
She swings her legs out into the open space until I gasp, then laughs. It’s small and joyless, the laugh of someone who knows things have totally gone too far.
“Never play poker,” she says. “It’s all on your face.” She pulls her legs back in. “I’m dust at the base of my pedestal, but Mamie . . . she’s still up there, isn’t she? Marble, perfect? God, Evie, what is it with Mamie? What the fuck?”
I reach around her and yank the window shut. My elbow’s near her cheek when I latch it tight. She doesn’t move away. It’s like she’s daring me to make contact. I lean back against the cold bank of sinks and face her.
“You’re probably right. I need to start seeing people for who they are, not be blinded by some vision of perfection—but Em, I’m not like you,” I start. “I’ve been looking to other people to try to figure out how I’m supposed to be. Who I’m supposed to be. I still don’t know how anyone knows that. But I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Ah, and clearly I don’t have it down at all. You must be so disappointed.” Her face is a picture of sarcasm.
“Stop twisting my words. That’s not what I’m saying, but you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, because we never talk about me anymore. I’m scared of everything, all the time! You cut through life like you have a right to be in it, like you’re not waiting for someone to give you permission to exist. If you start taking care of yourself, you’re going to be so strong. And Mamie’s like that too, only she—”
“Only she’s not a major fuckup.” Emma’s trying to sound accusing, but her voice wavers. She rubs a bit of salty grit from the corner of her eye.
We stare at each other a minute. She’s determined to hear it like that. To make it bad.
“Things haven’t been right between us for a long time,” I start again quietly. “We used to be more equal, you know? But somehow it’s slipped, shifted. I feel like you’re in charge all the time, and I’m your shadow, your helper.”
“My brother died.”
“It started before that.”
“You mean when I started getting guys and you got jealous.” Emma stares at me. Her eyes are distant, impenetrable, floating like cool violet moons in the top of her pale face.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I say. “I think you’re in your head judging yourself so harshly all the time that it’s starting to spill out of you, make you seem mean to other people—Roman—”
She flinches when I say his name.
“Roman!? Seriously? What do you care about Roman? He’s a jerk—you said so yourself.”
“Maybe that’s because he feels like crap all the time too.”
“Nice.” She shakes her head at me and kicks the edge of the sink by my hip with the toe of her boot. “You are a total hypocrite, you know that? You’ve cold-shouldered Alice since, like, forever.”
I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair’s still holding. My lips are bright. I don’t look nearly as small as I feel.
“You’re right.” I face her. “I did. And it’s because I was jealous and judging myself all the time too, but we keep passing this shitty feeling around, dumping it on each other, and it has to stop. I’m sick of feeling so lost and afraid. I have no idea how to fix it, but it seems like loving myself a little better might be a good place to start, you know?”
“What?” Emma scoffs, loud. “Are you breaking up with me?” She sounds bitchy and mean, but deep-red splotches have appeared on each cheek. I’m serious, and she knows it. She snaps the hair tie from her wrist and reaches up to braid her hair, tight.
Tears heat the corners of my eyes and I drop my voice. “I keep thinking maybe you need me to open my heart wider or be more fearless—like if I stick close you’ll believe in love. Because Patrick—”
“Shut up.”
I keep talking.
“—that was random, an accident, and you know what? I think it’s all random, and you’re not the only one who has to live with it. My dad died and my mom’s been a ghost most of my life . . . God, Em, I think this is just how it is.”
“I see,” she says, voice louder. “One little Mamie sighting and suddenly you’re Evie the wise.”
My heart sta
rts doing this thing that I’m pretty sure means get out of here now in heart language. While I’m standing here, trying to get her to listen, I’m missing my interview with the woman from TeenART. An actual opportunity. My hands go cold, clammy. I fumble for my phone to check the time.
“Am I keeping you?”
“I—” My voice comes out weird and froggy. I clear my throat, try again. “I have to be somewhere.”
“Whatever.” She flicks her hand at me like I’ve been keeping her. “Don’t let me stop you. By all means, go.”
“I’m going,” I say, crying for real now. “Because it’s what I need to do. Emma, you are my best friend. But I can’t figure this out for you. It’s not good for either one of us.”
I pick up my bag and walk to the door. Before I open it, I turn back to look at her again.
She’s leaning against the window, facing out.
But it stays closed.
Sprint
I SIT IN THE COOL, TILED stairwell and take a minute to pull myself together. Emma’s hurt, and mad at me, but I meant what I said, and I needed to say it. I dry my face on my sleeve. Despite my racing heart and clenched fists, I feel strangely solid. Like I did something right for a change instead of something desperate.
I look down at my hands. I’m clutching my bag and my maps like a tough grip will make the difference. I’m afraid for Emma, and fear locks me up. I don’t know what’s going to happen with her, but I’m pretty sure I can’t save her from whatever it is. She needs real help so she can save herself. I set my things down and work my hands loose. Maybe staying sane means sometimes letting go. Ride the current instead of fighting it.
Another map starts to take shape in my mind. Something I’d like to animate. I whip out my sketchbook and make a few notes. A river with a girl floating down it, stars in her hair. She’s on her back, her face to the sky. Somewhere near the edge of the map, the great mouth of a sea. She can use the constellations for navigation.
Time for me to go. Get up there. See if I’m not too late.
I stand and gather my things, then take the steps to the fourth floor three at a time, my bag and tube bumping against my back. Could be the adrenaline pumping through me, but each leap makes me lighter. This is me, reaching for a future.
Ms. Vax’s studio’s bright at the far end of the hall. She’s hovering near the door, like a worried bird, glancing at the clock and pacing, talking to someone else in the studio just out of sight.
“I’m here!” I call down the length of the corridor. “I’m coming!”
She looks out at me and her face breaks into the kind of smile that tells me I’m not too late. A chair creaks and scrapes on the old wooden floor and then another woman comes into view, also looking glad I’ve come.
I still have a chance at this thing.
“I’m sorry I’m late!” I say, my face breaking into a nervous smile.
I sprint the length of the hall toward the studio, ready to open my strange atlas, share Starbridge/Constellation, myself.
Jack called it a celestial event.
I think I am a celestial event.
I think we all are.
Acknowledgments
Books come into the world on a tremendous wave of support. I owe thanks to many people, but I want to begin with readers. Hearing from you after the publication of Lovely, Dark and Deep was the best surprise. Your connection to story, your enthusiasm and kindness mean everything to me. Thank you to all the book fans, bloggers, cover enthusiasts, and reviewers who make noise when they read something they like.
I owe endless thanks to librarians and teachers. When I was a lonely, awkward girl, you helped me find books by Lois Lowry, Paula Fox, Madeleine L’Engle, E. L. Konigsburg, S. E. Hinton, Betty Smith, Norma Klein, John Knowles, and J. D. Salinger. Their stories carried me through the hours and filled me with the promise of new places and other lives. The first time I saw my book on a library shelf was a dream come true. I’m so grateful for the work you do and for your support.
Thanks to all you wonderful booksellers for your passion and your ability to put the right book into the right reader’s hand. Bookshops are community treasures, and I’m so happy to see them come roaring back.
To my agent, Sara Crowe, and my editor, Alexandra Cooper—writing is solitary, but I never feel alone because I know you’re in it with me. Thank you for your generosity, intelligence, wit, energy, and patience. You challenge me to make things better and never forget to listen to the language. I am so lucky to work with you.
I’m thrilled to be published by HarperCollins under the editorial direction of Rosemary Brosnan and the spirit of Ursula Nordstrom. Thank you to Alyssa Miele for your cheerful replies to my many emails. Thanks to the whole team at HarperTeen, to Erin Fitzsimmons and Catherine San Juan, the visionaries behind this gorgeous cover. To Jon Howard, Gwen Morton, Bess Braswell, Mitchell Thorpe, Vanessa Nuttry, and Kristen Eckhardt for your transformational magic. You turn a collection of words into a book and get it out into the world. Thanks to copy editor Megan Gendell for teaching me that no one calls the temple arm of eyeglasses a “bow” and for keeping me from looking like a total doofus. Equal thanks to Rosanne Lauer for your eagle-like proofreading eye.
Thanks to the design and illustration studio Maricor/Maricar for sharing your art and for stitching my beautiful cover (all those hand-tied French knots!).
Thank you to the Garramone family, who turned their Paris apartment into the world’s best writing retreat three years in a row.
Thanks to painter Allyn Howard for the studio visit, for loaning me books on maps, and for the long conversation about the technical details of making art.
Thanks to Jessica Dineen, Kath Jesme, Medbh McNamara, Noel McNamara, and Kim Purcell for reading drafts and offering thoughts.
A fair amount of freaking out seems to be part of writing a book. All my gratitude to family and friends for loving me anyway.
Finally, thanks to Medbh and Noel. You make me proud. And to Doug, I’m so lucky in love. Forward!
Note
The Emily Roebling House, its gift shop, tours, and apartments exist only in my imagination. They are inspired by the very real and wonderful Tenement Museum on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. I thought Emily Warren Roebling deserved a place of her own. After the death of her father-in-law and original engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge, John Roebling, and the subsequent disabling illness of her husband, Washington Roebling, Emily Roebling oversaw the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge. She acted as liaison between her husband and the engineering team and as an engineer herself. Emily was the first person to cross the bridge when it opened on May 24, 1883. The physical location of the building imagined to hold the Emily Roebling House exists in Brooklyn on the corner of Water and Old Fulton Streets, where it houses a Shake Shack and some apartments.
About the Author
Photo by Stephanie Colgan
AMY McNAMARA is a writer whose poems have appeared in numerous journals and have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her first novel, Lovely, Dark and Deep, won the ILA Children’s and Young Adults’ Book Award, was an ABC New Voices Pick, and was nominated as an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. When she’s not reading stories, telling stories, or thinking about stories or poems, she can be spotted, camera in hand, documenting the incredible city she calls home. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Visit her online at www.amymcnamara.com.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
A FLICKER IN THE CLARITY. Copyright © 2018 by Amy McNamara. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text 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 HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover art by Maricor Maricar
Cover design by Catherine San Juan
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017959285
Digital Edition JUNE 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-230836-8
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-230834-4 (trade bdg.)
* * *
Title Lettering by Maricor Maricar
1819202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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