The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett

by Chelsea Sedoti

  I cried for Vernon, but I also cried for Lizzie. I cried because I had been too weak and scared to go to her funeral, even though I’d really wanted to. I cried because I knew there had been a hundred people saying good-bye to Lizzie, but Vernon, someone who lived such a long life, barely had ten. And two of those people were waitresses from a diner he hung out at.

  An elderly woman, Vernon’s sister, hugged Christa and me before we left and said, “It would have meant so much to him that you came.”

  I guess that’s just the way it is. Sometimes, there are things that are really hard to do, and it sucks the whole time you’re doing them. But you also know it’s the right thing, and you might be making a huge difference for someone else.

  While we were walking to our cars, Christa asked me if I wanted to get some coffee. “It’d be nice to drink coffee with you instead of serving it to other people.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would be nice.”

  So we went across the street to a little café. As we sipped our drinks, I thought about how normal it was. The sun was shining, and the coffee was steaming, and Christa and I were talking and laughing. It was simple. It was easy. It was perfect.

  And life went on.

  Chapter 37

  The Last Thing

  The last thing that happened was a walk in the snow. Which doesn’t seem like a big deal, not after everything else, but it was actually totally interesting. The walk made me realize that in real life, there isn’t actually a last thing. Nothing ends; it just turns into a different story.

  But I’m probably getting ahead of myself and skipping all over the place, which I’m trying to stop.

  So the end, which wasn’t really an end at all, happened like this:

  Sundog had a PO box in Texas. That’s where I sent the letters I wrote him. I’d started putting all my feelings on paper, just like he’d told me to. I knew the letters would stack up before Sundog was in Texas and got them. I wasn’t sure he’d even read them. But in a way, that made it easier for me to be honest.

  I was in the middle of writing one of those letters, writing about how Emily had started eating lunch with me again sometimes, and how one day, Ronna Barnes even joined us, when there was a knock on the front door.

  “Rush isn’t home,” I told Connor.

  “I actually came to see you.”

  I was pretty sure I did a terrible job hiding my surprise.

  “Are you busy?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Sundog could wait.

  Connor looked sort of bashful, which was not an expression I was used to seeing on his all-American-boy face. He pulled a tiny, black key chain and a small box with a button on it from his pocket.

  “I did this final project for my electronics class. We had to make something that helped people in their day-to-day lives. And, well, there were a few times I was over here, and you couldn’t find your keys. That gave me the idea. See, you attach this piece to your key chain. This other part has a button, and when you press it…” He pressed the button, and the key chain piece started beeping.

  “That’s totally awesome. Can I look at it?” I asked, holding out a hand.

  “Actually, it’s for you. You inspired me to make it, so I figured you should have it.”

  “Really?”

  Connor nodded and handed me the device.

  “Now I need to make sure I don’t lose this,” I said, holding up the box with the button.

  “You know, I didn’t really think about that.”

  We both laughed, then Connor said, “You want to take a walk or something?”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “Oh, come on. Like walking in the snow is the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”

  He had a point. I got my jacket.

  We talked about regular things while we walked, like what we’d gotten for Christmas, and what classes he was taking next semester, and how I still didn’t know what I wanted to do after high school, but I wasn’t filled with dread at the thought of the future. I was surprised at how normal the whole thing felt.

  “There was an article in the paper the other day about a bridge in New Philadelphia,” Connor said. “It’s supposed to be haunted. Made me think of you.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I told him.

  “Since when?”

  I thought about saying since I stopped believing in werewolves, but I just shrugged.

  “Thorny, we both know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So you’ve never had a single ghostly encounter?”

  I knew Connor was teasing me, but it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t in the brotherly way Rush teased me either.

  “I guess maybe one time,” I said, and it made Connor laugh. I told him about the house in the woods, the one where Enzo and I’d heard noises in the basement.

  “You ever think of going back there? Finding out what it was?” he asked.

  “Are you offering to go with me?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  I thought about it for a minute. We could get in the car and go to the house and find out if there was really someone or something there. Maybe it was a monster. Maybe it was a serial killer. But maybe it was a bum, or a raccoon, or nothing at all.

  “Nah,” I said finally. “It’s better if it’s a mystery.”

  As long as something was a mystery, there was still the potential for amazement. Maybe that’s where I went wrong before. Some riddles weren’t meant be solved.

  “Do you think there’s magic?” I asked Connor.

  “Sure. I mean, not like wizards and crystal balls or anything. But I think there are things in the world that shouldn’t be able to happen but happen anyway.”

  “Good.”

  Connor grinned at me. I smiled back. He was my older brother’s friend. I was just a kid to him. Or maybe not.

  We walked down the snowy street, sometimes talking and sometimes being quiet. Sometimes, our hands bumped together by accident, but neither of us moved away.

  It was January, the beginning of a new year, and it felt like a fresh start. My life was changing, but for once, that was a good thing. I felt like I was seeing the world more clearly. I knew that even though someone seemed perfect, it didn’t mean they weren’t hurting inside. And that our lives are only as good as we make them. And that there probably weren’t any werewolves.

  But it didn’t take a girl turning into a wolf to make the world magical. If I kept looking, I’d always find new and fascinating adventures.

  And in the future, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions or share far-fetched theories without having supporting evidence. I’d think before I spoke. I’d look for magic but wouldn’t invent it. I would be smart. I would be logical. I would act like an adult.

  At least, I would try to.

  I’d give it a really good attempt.

  Maybe. Probably.

  Acknowledgments

  Sometimes I wish I could be a hermit writer and live in a cabin in the woods with zero human contact. But the truth is, this book wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the help of so many amazing people.

  This is the part where I get to gush about them.

  Before I started querying, I had a list of “dream agents.” Suzie Townsend was at the top of it. Suzie, the reality of working with you is even better than I’d imagined. Thank you for your passion, your hard work, and for being my champion through every stage of this process. In addition, thank you to all the wonderful people at New Leaf Literary, with a special shout-out to Sara Stricker, Kathleen Ortiz, Mia Roman, Chris McEwen, Pouya Shahbazian, and Hilary Pecheone.

  The brilliant insights of my editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan, have both improved this book and, as a whole, made me a better writer. Thank you for falling in love with Hawthorn and for being as excited to share her story as
I am. And a huge thanks to the entire Sourcebooks team. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to work with such a warm, dedicated, enthusiastic group of people.

  My local critique group, especially Aileen, Becky, Bill, Carlos, Chris H., Chris M., Elizabeth, JJ, Mary, Mandy, Paul, Rachel, and Raz. Not only have you helped me grow as a writer, you inspire me with your own stories every week. Thank you for Monday nights filled with shape-shifting starfish, human remains in bowling bags, singing cockroaches, and all sorts of other awesome weirdness.

  The r/YAwriters crew: Alexa, Anna, Caitie, Greg, Jason, Jess, Jo, Josh, Katelyn, Katie, Kristine, Leann, Morgan, Phil, and Rachel. Thank you for feedback, for advice, for support, for laughter, for cogs, for The Line. I’d be lost without all of you.

  Thank you to the Swanky Seventeen debut group. This publishing journey is so wonderfully bizarre, and I’m lucky to be on it with such kind, encouraging, and talented writers.

  Joanna Farrow, a.k.a. the ghost in my attic, a.k.a. the first person not related to me who read this book. Thank you for your wisdom, for knowing when I need cookies, and for being so much more than just a critique partner.

  Thank you to Dan O’Sullivan for spending hours talking writing with me and for reading and critiquing an early draft of this book. And for, along with Bobby Hicks, inadvertently giving me the idea for Hawthorn’s curses.

  There’s a card from Anna Priemaza taped to my fridge that says, “You can do it!” Anna, thank you for reminding me of this a billion times and for regularly pushing me outside my comfort zone.

  Thank you to Evan Sedoti for making this one of the three books he’s willingly read; Susan Schoonover-Arguelles, who after a lifetime of friendship, has put up with more crazy scheming from me than Emily has from Hawthorn; Lucy Sanchez for insights into high school life and hippie wisdom; my dad for giving me his dark sense of humor; my entire extended family for always being ridiculously supportive; and Steve Conger for getting excited about this book when it was only a vague idea (also, for werewolf hunting with me).

  For years my mom told me I should write a novel. Thank you for encouraging such an impossible-seeming dream, and for raising me to believe I could become anything I wanted to be. The pride I hear in your voice when you tell people about this book means everything to me.

  My incredible husband, Steve Phillips, contributed more to this novel than I could possibly list here. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself, for understanding when I ignored the real world for a make-believe one, and, on all those occasions I wanted to throw this book in the trash, for telling me to stop being melodramatic and keep writing.

  Lastly, thank you to Joanna Bruzzese. When we were little kids, she was the first person to read my stories. She always insisted I’d be a “real” writer one day. More than anything, I wish she was here so I could hand her this book and say, “Look, Jo, you were right. I did it.”

  About the Author

  Chelsea Sedoti fell in love with writing at a young age after discovering that making up stories was more fun than doing her schoolwork. (Her teachers didn’t always appreciate this.) In an effort to avoid getting a “real” job, Chelsea explored careers as a balloon twister, filmmaker, and paranormal investigator. Eventually she realized that her true passion is writing about flawed teenagers who are also afraid of growing up. When she’s not at the computer, Chelsea spends her time exploring abandoned buildings, eating junk food at roadside diners, and trying to befriend every animal in the world. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where she avoids casinos but loves roaming the Mojave Desert. To read more about her adventures, visit chelseasedoti.com.

  Thank you for reading!

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