by Leah Thomas
You told me she’s gone. I know you were trying to make me feel better, in that heartless way of yours. But she’s not gone. She’s haunting me.
I don’t think that’s the worst thing.
I’ll take whatever company I can get.
Days after we got back, I sat outside and waited for a comet to pass by. I know my charts were correct, and the sky was clear over the trees, but I waited until I was blue-shivering and I never saw it. I kind of thought maybe I’d blinked right when it went by, or maybe I wasn’t reaching high enough, not stretching myself like Arthur would have, just not doing enough, and I refused to go inside when Auburn-Stache told me to. He stayed on the porch behind me, smoking his cigarettes.
So the second ghost was the invisible comet.
The third ghost appeared in the backyard.
I sat on the stoop with my bare feet in the long grass, pulling the longest strands into a weave pattern. Mom used to weave baskets, but it was one of those hobbies I never bothered with, so who knew if I could make those tiny strands of green a solid whole. The brisk spring air made my nose run, but there was enough sun to leave me sweating in my beanie.
I felt the ghost before I heard it.
“Our mutual friend tells me, Oliver Paulot, that you have not made a single scatological joke since your return. What a travesty.” The ghost’s w wasn’t totally a v, but almost.
I lifted my eyes.
He wasn’t exactly how I imagined. He’d told me he was short, but I’m taller than most people who aren’t Arthurs. Unless I was talking to a hobbit, I wouldn’t notice someone’s exact degree of shortness.
He stood perfectly proportionate and, I dunno, proper. Delicate, almost, like the origami cranes I suck at making. There was so much else to see about him: his dark hair so neat, apart from bangs that hung too long over his forehead down to his cheekbones, those black goggles, sleeker than I’d pictured—closer to the kind used for swimming than the kind used for flying planes. I could see more of his face than I’d thought I would, his narrow cheeks and pointed chin.
He wasn’t exactly how I imagined.
But there was this silver beating of his chest—well, of the pacemaker keeping time inside his chest. That gleam was hard to look at. Every few seconds the silver light faded and lit up again, brighter than any comet.
I took one look at Moritz Farber and I wanted to say everything I’d ever thought all at once, and say it four times louder than usual, and maybe while coughing and laughing and gasping and shouting at the same time. I wanted to scare the chirping things from the rustling trees.
I dropped my patch of basket.
“You’re . . . what about your mom . . .”
“Every quest can afford detours. The hobbits had Rivendell.” He crooked his chin up at me. I saw white sky reflected in his goggles, the shadows of leaves caught there. My silhouette and the endless trees behind us, bent green and brown and strange.
You could get lost in lack-of-eyes like that.
I took three steps back, shaking my head the whole time. “I could kill you.”
“What else is, ah, new?” I never guessed his smile would be crooked. “That’s where we’ve always stood.”
Suddenly, I felt this sort of flicker of warmth in the air. It had nothing to do with the white sun—it hit my head instead of my body, like someone poured milky tea through my ears—without the burning. Just the comfort. Geborgenheit.
“Please say something.”
“Like what?”
He smirked. “Since when does ‘what’ matter to Oliver Paulot?”
“Moritz. Moritz.” I choked on a laugh. “Call me Ollie.”
Moritz can’t see blushing, but that’s exactly what he did. “I’m, ah, working up to it.”
“Did you know something?” I blurted. “Your pacemaker glows silver!”
“Ah. What does silver sound like?”
I just kept shaking my head, trying to shake the happiness loose, happiness I didn’t deserve but couldn’t fight forever. Maybe life really is about meeting people under strange circumstances. If that’s true, Bridget, I’ve lived one helluva life.
Moritz clicked his tongue against his teeth—a sound like a branch snapping. “Ollie? You promised to hug me first. Where are you?”
“Right here.” I threw my insulated arms around Moritz’s shoulders and held him like I’ve never held anything. We were boundless.
This is not science fiction.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people who read Because You’ll Never Meet Me assumed it would be a stand-alone. Readers told me that one of the book’s strengths is that it doesn’t need a sequel—a sentiment I still take as a compliment.
The trouble is, the world isn’t like that. We don’t have endings. We continue to grow and struggle and mourn and triumph and live. Ollie, Moritz, and company have always felt like characters clawing to survive, countering anything that might deny them that right. They deserve all the joyful, horrible mess the universe entails. Nowhere Near You was written even before its predecessor sold, because life simply doesn’t stand alone.
I need to thank those who refused to let me stand alone during this process.
My Bloomsbury family. Specifically, kudos to Mary Kate Castellani for insightful editorial coaxing, Beth Eller for timely advice and wry humor, Linette Kim for keeping our brains in order, Emily Ritter for bringing joy to the party (even though she saw Hamilton without me), and Lizzy Mason for general kindness. This book is in your hands now only because I sniffled something about a sequel to Cristina Gilbert, who seemingly pulled Cindy Loh from thin air so they could say, without hesitation, “We want that.”
Lana. My patient, tenacious agent. You’re raising me up right.
Librarians. To be taken under their collective wing and pushed from the nest into the hands of readers is an honor. Visit libraries! They’re full of books, people!
Likewise, because of indie bookstores, a thousand Little Books That Could can and do. Readers, please populate these places.
My friends. From the ladies of Craft Group and my cosplay and convention crew (you make San Diego worth it), to fellow artists near and far, from supporters distant but felt, to the good ol’ Clarionites, I am embraced on all sides. I could lose my footing and be held up, made to levitate. Special nods to Karin Tidbeck, Courtney Alldridge, Jessica Hilt, Patrick Ropp, and Ann and Jeff Vandermeer.
My family. Mom and Dad, for giving me books and reasons to read them. Erin and Evan and Bryn, I love you despite your horrendous puns. Extended family on both sides, know that your encouragement is perpetually appreciated. Grandma, I promise one day I’ll write something “normal.” Or at least . . . I’ll try. Maybe.
My students. My god, you are brilliant. The world has much to learn from you all. Please, always love what you love. Anything you love has value. Share that notion.
Finally, my readers. I have thousands of words, but for you I’m wondering if there’s one word in some language for gratitude so deep the pit of it pierces the whole world and leaves a glorious gap through which you can see the stars on either side? That’s what I have for you. (Thanks for the digital kittens, Chloe Smith.)
A few books in, I still feel like I’m constantly coming of age. I would never want that process to stop for anyone. Please keep reading. Keep growing. Be boundless. Know that you don’t stand alone.
Copyright © 2017 by Leah Thomas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in the United States of America in February 2017
by Bloomsbury Children’s Books
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Thomas, Leah, author.
Title: Nowhere near you / by Leah Thomas.
Description: New York : Bloomsbury, 2017. | Sequel to: Because you’ll never meet me.
Summary: Ollie and Moritz might never meet, but their friendship knows no bounds. Their letters carry on as Ollie embarks on his first road trip away from the woods—no easy feat for a boy allergic to electricity—and Moritz decides which new school would best suit an eyeless boy who prefers to be alone. Along the way they meet other teens like them, other products of strange science who lead seemingly normal lives in ways Ollie and Moritz never imagined possible.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016022577 (print) • LCCN 2016036826 (e-book)
ISBN 978-1-68119-178-2 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-68119-179-9 (e-book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Letters—Fiction. | Epilepsy—Fiction. | Blind—Fiction. | People with disabilities—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Science fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Science Fiction. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Adolescence.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T463 No 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.T463 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016022577
Book design by Jessie Gang
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