Dogs die, maybe. But friendship doesn’t. Not if you don’t let it.
Mark was worn down to nothing. His body was withered and wasted away by it all. But his eyes had more life in them than they’d had in ages. He’d found something, up there on the mountain. Something that stayed with him.
“Does he have a chance?” his parents asked the doctor, when Jessie was there and Mark was asleep. His parents were holding hands. “Can he still beat it?”
The doctor had shrugged, but it was a smiling shrug. “I’d say it’d take a miracle,” he answered. “But this kid’s got a good track record on miracles. My money’s on Mark.”
They kept the cameras away, and the reporters. He was the big story. The cancer kid who’d run away. The dying boy who wanted to climb a mountain. Some people thought he was stupid. Some people thought he was a hero. Everyone wanted to hear his story.
But only one person did. Only one person heard all of it.
During those days that added up to weeks in the hospital, Jessie sat by his side.
“I want to tell it all to you,” he had said. “Everything. And then I want you to tell my story.”
Jess had shaken her head.
“I — I can’t.”
He’d smiled.
“Yeah. You can. You’re the only one who could. You were always the good one with words.” His smile had faded. “I need you to, Jess. Before I forget it all.” His voice had gotten quiet then. “Or in case I don’t make it. I need you to.”
And Jessie, of course, had nodded. For some things, there is no saying no.
And so they sat in the hospital and he told it all to her. They paged through his snow-stained journal and read the words he’d written. They looked at the pictures he’d taken.
She saw the broken watch on the train platform, and he told her how mad he’d been, mad at his life, mad at the time that was running out on him.
She saw the dirty little diner, filled with light in a dark city. He told her how sick he’d been, how scared, how angry — angry even at a woman trying to give him kindness.
She saw a blurry picture of an angry face with a cocked fist, looking right into the camera. And she heard about pain and punches and money left behind and a little dog that would fight anything to protect his boy.
She saw a picture of a little hallway with three women shrouded in kitchen steam and a picture of a bald and bloody boy in the bathroom mirror, and she heard about the voices of angels and the decision to keep going.
She saw a picture of a little girl on a bus. And then a picture of Mark, hat on and smiling, with the world out a bus window behind him. And she heard about shared poems and anger and about how anger only makes sense when you’re stuck in the middle of it.
She saw a dog by a campfire, on a rain-soaked island lost in darkness. And she heard about fear, and friendship, and warmth in the cold. Light in the darkness.
She saw red taillights on a green truck, driving away. And he told her about lost sons that couldn’t be helped, and country music, and the confusion of a kind man not knowing which way was right.
She saw a gaping black crack, waiting to swallow a dying boy and his dog. And she heard how the boy had been saved by his dog, and then the dog saved by his boy.
Finally, at last, she saw a mountain. Glorious. Majestic. Beautiful. And she heard about peace. About love. About how everything can make sense and be understood.
And Jessie listened to every word. And she wondered how she’d ever be able to tell the story. But she knew she would. Because her friend had asked her to.
He never asked her if she’d told his secret. He never asked the police or his parents about the phone call to the tip line. Whether it had been the gruff voice of an old man or the scared voice of a girl. But he knew there had only been one call. And that was enough. Both had known. One had called. They had both tried to help him.
In those long hospital days, Mark and Jessie told each other nothing but the truth. Except, maybe, once.
It was near the end of the story, at the end of a long day. Visiting hours were almost over, and he was tired. His voice was weak, whispery. Like feathers. The question took her by surprise.
“Was I close?” he asked. “To the top, I mean? I wanted to climb it. To reach the top. Did I get close?”
Jessie swallowed and squeezed Mark’s hand in her own.
“Yeah,” she’d answered, after a few breathless moments. “Yeah, you got close.”
There’s more than one kind of truth. There’s the truth that you can measure, the truth on maps and charts and in books of facts. And maybe in that kind of truth, Mark didn’t reach the top. Maybe he didn’t even come close. Maybe in that kind of truth he got lost and wandered off the trail and didn’t come anywhere close to the top of anything.
But in the other kind of truth, the kind of truth you feel in a deeper place, in that kind of truth the maps don’t matter. In that kind of truth the skinny, bald kid with the disease eating away at him and the little brown dog with one brown eye and one green eye made it farther than they ever should have. They made it farther than minds and maps could measure, but not farther than hearts could imagine.
In that kind of truth, Mark totally made it. He made it to the top of every mountain.
What Jessie said wasn’t a lie. It was just a better kind of truth.
That night, in the hotel room, Jess started to try and tell Mark’s story, like he’d asked her to. She got out a notebook and a pencil and tried to put it all down on paper.
“Mark was sick,” she began. But it didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right. Beau was sitting beside her, his warm body against her leg. No pets were allowed in the hotel. But they’d been given special permission.
“Mark was so sick he had to go,” she tried again. No.
“Mark —” she tried again, but crossed it out immediately. She couldn’t tell his story from afar, she realized. She had to tell his story, his way. It deserved that. He deserved that.
She ripped the page out of her notebook and let it drop to the floor.
She bit her lip and took a breath.
She knew what to do. And once she started, there was no stopping. Not until the story of her best friend and his dog was told, and told right. That’s the truth.
She put her pencil to the paper and started writing.
“The mountain was calling me,” she wrote. “I had to run away. I had to.”
I am so lucky and grateful to have had so much amazing support in my writing journey, from so many people. Too many people, in fact, to even begin to name them all here. I’d never forgive myself if I left someone off. So, instead, I’ll just say this: thank you. To all of you. To each and every one of you who helped and encouraged and cheered and believed all these years. Whether you’re my wife or my daughters or childhood friend or college friend or adult friend or in-law or parent or sister or coworker or teacher or agent or editor or editorial intern or student or boss or cousin or aunt or uncle or grandparent or book designer or writing club member or writing conference organizer or anyone else who has been on my side through this whole thing: thank you. And if you were wondering if I noticed, if I’d remember and include you here, the answer is: yes. I just did. And always will. Thank you.
DAN GEMEINHART is a teacher, librarian, and father of three. THE HONEST TRUTH is his first book.
Copyright © 2015 by Dan Gemeinhart
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, February 2015
Cover art & design by Nina Goffi
e-ISBN 978-0-545-66576-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse e
ngineered, 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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