I was only sixteen. In a year and a half I’d have the freedom I was already starting to crave.
As the broadcast threw out theories—that Alex had information and had cut a deal, that the police didn’t have probable cause for the search of Alex and Casey’s apartment—Mom said, wet eyes on the screen, “You must be relieved, Em.”
Tears leaked down my cheeks, and I laughed through them, gave my mom my most brilliant smile.
Henri just came up behind me, rested her chin on my shoulder, and sighed. I could feel her smile too.
One August afternoon, I was standing in the checkout line with Mom as she checked her grocery list. “Parmesan. Basil . . .” My dad was coming to dinner and Italian was his favorite. “The marinara,” she said, glancing to the three carts ahead of us. “I forgot it.”
“I’ll get it,” I said. “Stay in line.”
In aisle 9, between the soda and candy, I froze.
Mr. Flynn wore a Violent Femmes T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans as he thumbed through a copy of Rolling Stone. At his feet was a bundle of bananas balanced on top of a case of Stella Artois.
If I just kept walking, he would never see me. But I stood still in the aisle, alone with my shame and his and Henri’s, as his gaze drifted my way.
He did a double take and put the magazine back on the rack. His eyes were sad at first, but he gave me a faint smile as he raised his hand in a small wave. Before I could wave back, he lifted his chin and headed for the registers. Forgiveness didn’t take an island for Mr. Flynn.
Then again, we weren’t sisters.
CHAPTER 38
My first day of senior year at Baird, I stepped off the BART platform and onto the train for the first time in my life alone. Lights flickered in and out as the train plunged underground.
This ride, I’d worried about making it for a full year. Now I was choosing it.
Mom gave me the option of going back to school or doing homeschooling till graduation. I chose school. My teachers had let me take my junior year finals at the end of summer so I could go right into senior year. It felt like I’d bubbled Scan-tron boxes haphazardly, but somehow when I logged into the Baird grading system, I saw I’d passed all my classes.
I took out my phone to check the time, and even though I had just cleaned out my in-box, a little red 1 hovered over the mail icon.
The liquid pulse of my heart filled my ears as I noticed the name of the sender. Alex.
The train car was less than half full, but I glanced around. This was for me and only me.
With my upper back pressed against the window, my book bag in my lap, and my feet in the seat beside me, I opened the message.
Jones,
If you’re reading this, Henri wasn’t just messing with me when she got in touch and told me how I could find you. I hope it’s you—I don’t think even the cruelest parts of your sister could joke about something as important as this.
I guess you know about the deal I cut. I’ve been working a lot since I got out—three (legitimate!) jobs. The rickshaw is the best of my gigs because once in a while, my tires hit the sidewalk between that resort and Luquillo Beach and I remember meeting you. I work so hard because the busier I stay, the easier it is to forget about an island that’s otherwise always on my mind.
This island, it’s not as sunny or warm as ours, but it’s also a real nightmare to escape. I have almost enough in the bank to make it out your way. Maybe you’ll consider another boat ride with me? Rumor has it the Alcatraz tour meets at Pier 33.
Alex
The train rattled to a stop and I slipped my phone into my bag. All the missing parts of me were slowly drifting back.
“Emma?”
Sareena Takhar stood in the aisle in her Baird uniform, the paper cup in her hands sending up tufts of steam, and a book bag on her shoulder.
“Hey.” I hadn’t seen Sareena since before the accident, and I’d never seen her on this train before. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”
“Oh, I didn’t last year. We moved this summer. My parents want something smaller since I’m going to college next year. Less of an empty nest to cry over, I guess.” She smiled.
The doors sounded the warning they were about to close, and I dropped my feet off the seat so she could sit beside me.
“I didn’t know if you’d be at Baird this year,” she said. “After everything. Before Mick and Ari left, we were all totally glued to CNN.” She smiled as she peeled the sleeve off her drink. “Ari wasn’t exactly a fan of Henri’s sudden fame.”
“No surprise there,” I said as the train gained speed for the short trip to Baird.
“But I wasn’t much of a fan of Ari’s, so . . .” Sareena shrugged, and I had to laugh.
“Where did Mick and Ari go?” I asked.
“Mick took the band on the road—get ready for Ambisextrous, unsuspecting ears—and Ari moved to LA early.”
“Get ready for Ari, Los Angelenos.”
“For real,” she said, and laughed. “What’s Henri doing?”
“Prague right now. Then she’s taking the train to Vienna.”
Henri had thought about what I’d said that first night on the raft. Mom and Dad weren’t happy, but her therapist agreed and so did I that Henri needed to do something that was hers and hers alone. Even though I’d miss her, maybe backpacking through Europe was the answer.
As the train stilled at our stop, Sareena scooped her dark hair over her shoulder and slipped on her book bag. “I’m glad you decided to come back, Emma.”
Fog melted off the warming sidewalks outside Civic Center Station, and as Sareena and I moved toward Baird, I saw myself in the year ahead—dizzy and dancing, music pulsing into my chest so hard, I didn’t know where the song ended and my heartbeat began. My mailbox, flowing with thick envelopes from universities, full of risk and independence and tiny towns and huge cities. Camera clicks inside a photo booth in Chinatown, striking poses between bright flashes. The boat to Alcatraz, salty air whipping tangles into my hair as I stared into the ocean, with familiar hands on my waist, anchoring me to the world. The sun rising over a San Francisco rooftop after a Saturday night that lasted so long, it bled into Sunday morning.
In stunning clarity, there it was—I didn’t even have to be clairvoyant to see it—the wonder of what was soon to be my now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Bringing A Map for Wrecked Girls into the world involved many people coming together, each lending me their individual talents and unfailing support. This book will forever hold a small piece of all of them, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.
First, to Melissa Sarver White, my tireless agent, fiercest advocate, and kindred spirit. Without her advocacy and guidance, I’m certain this story would be just another file on my computer. I can’t thank her enough for restoring my confidence in my work and changing my life.
Working with my dedicated editor, Jessica Dandino Garrison, has been a constant joy—she might be the kindest person in publishing. I have been so astoundingly lucky to benefit from her editorial skills, perfectionism, and unwavering excitement. Heartfelt gratitude to Jess for loving even the most broken parts of this story and knowing exactly how to make them whole.
Lauri Hornik, Namrata Tripathi, Dana Chidiac, and the entire brilliant team at Dial Books, for the dream come true. I have admired Penguin authors from afar for all of my life—and they’ve made me one of them. A special thank-you to my copyeditor, Regina Castillo, whose attention to the details and timeline has been invaluable. My gratitude also goes to Elaine Damasco and Theresa Evangelista for the gorgeous cover, and to Mina Chung for the beautiful interiors. Thanks also to Penguin’s dedicated Publicity, Marketing, and Sales teams who’ve worked so hard for this book.
Many thanks to everyone at Folio Literary Management—I couldn’t be prouder to be part of the Folio family. Lisa
Mulcahy, thank you for your help in whipping the manuscript into shape.
I would be lost without these talented friends who read early versions of this story and offered advice: Julie Murphy, always the first eyes on the roughest of my words, for forcing me to push myself further, and for offering years of direction and dozens of cupcakes. My dear friend and the brightest spot of sunshine in YA, Stephanie Garber—it has been a comfort to share our lows and the delight of my life when our highs collided. Alexis Bass, the Rachel to my Monica, for early insights that improved this story greatly and gave me the confidence to pursue finding an agent. I. W. Gregorio, for extending her medical expertise to the story and for her friendship.
I’ll always be indebted to Kim Culbertson for taking the time to talk to me about writing all those years ago and befriending a clueless fangirl. Authors like Kim are the best thing about the book world.
I’m lucky to call myself a friend to many gifted authors who were guiding lights through an uncertain time: Stacey Lee, Jennifer Mathieu, Sabaa Tahir, Joanna Rowland, Kelly Loy Gilbert, Valerie Tejeda, Janelle Weiner, Rose Cooper, Katie Nelson, Jenny Lundquist, Shannon Dittemore, Sarah Clift, Kristin Dwyer, and Adrienne Young.
My lifelong friends, Allison Fuller, Ardeep Johal, and Vishaal Pegany, thank you for all the nights we felt infinite.
Endless love and gratitude to my parents, who have given me more than anyone deserves. Their most incredible gift has been their limitless support and encouragement. Because of them, I have the luxury of waking up every day and doing what I love.
JESSICA TAYLOR adores atmospheric settings, dangerous girls, and characters who sneak out late at night. She lives in Northern California, not far from San Francisco, with a law degree she isn’t using, one dog, and many teetering towers of books.
Connect with Jessica online:
jessicataylorwrites.com
@JessicaTaylorYA
@JessicaTaylorYA
@JessicaTaylorWrites
@JessicaTaylorWrites
@novelista85
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