G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Blank.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Blank, Jessica, 1975– author.
Title: Legacy / Jessica Blank.
Description: New York, NY : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2018]
Summary: Alison, seventeen, wanted to quietly endure senior year after the upheaval of her brother’s death, but a fight with her mother sends her to a radical environmental group, where she finds courage and strength.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017053082 (print) | LCCN 2017061545 (ebook) ISBN 9780698173606 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399256479 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Coming of age—Fiction. | Death—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction | Environmental protection—Fiction. | Forests and forestry—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Washington (State)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.B61313 (ebook)
LCC PZ7.B61313 Leg 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017053082
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kristie Radwilowicz
Version_1
for Sadie
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
INTRODUCTION
LEGACY is a work of fiction, but it’s based in a very real history of brave actions led, conceived, and imagined by young people.
In the 1990s, thousands of young people gathered on the West Coast, from California to Oregon and Washington, to save old-growth forests threatened by logging. Many of them were affiliated with a group called Earth First!, which had started in 1980 as a movement dedicated to saving wilderness areas through nonviolent direct action. The people (mostly kids) involved in these actions set up camp in the woods and put their bodies on the line to slow the destruction of ancient forests, raise public awareness, and allow time for legal challenges to logging plans to make their way through the courts.
These nonviolent “forest occupations” were often conceived, imagined, and led by young people who stepped up to take immediate, collective action to fight for what they believed in. These activists were often confronted by logging companies, private security, police, and even the FBI, but they persisted, and throughout the 1990s, forest occupation successfully stopped several logging operations in old-growth forests. In 1999, after nearly fifteen years of blockades, protests, and tree sits (including a two-year sit by twenty-two-year-old Julia “Butterfly” Hill), the Headwaters Reserve was created in Northern California, protecting an ancient forest—including trees more than two thousand years old—from being clear-cut.
Mature forests once covered most of the planet—but more than 80 percent of them have been destroyed, and what’s left is severely threatened. Old-growth forests—forests in their original state, free of major disturbance by humans—are vital to the survival of not only millions of plant and animal species, but of the human species itself. Old-growth forests reduce the severity of forest fires, clean the air of pollution, and—most importantly—absorb and store carbon dioxide, making them crucial to slowing climate change. And they are unbelievably beautiful—standing in the shadow of an ancient redwood or Douglas fir, it’s hard not to feel like there’s something much bigger than us, to have created such beauty.
The world is changing fast—so fast that it can feel like it’s impossible for any of us, individually, to have much of an effect. But standing up for what we believe in—and finding others who share our vision so we can learn to work together toward a common goal—is the only way to make real change. It takes courage to define what you believe in for yourself—and even more courage to raise your voice. But the beauty in the world won’t survive unless we stand up for it.
Legacy is the story of one girl who learned to do that. I hope she inspires you to do the same.
PROLOGUE
My brother, Andy, pulls me downstairs and into his room. “What—?” I start to say, but “Shh,” he answers, serious. I clamp my mouth shut, thinking something must be going on. He takes one look at my solemn face and bursts out laughing.
For a second I want to kick his ass for tricking me, but I can’t be mad: that laugh’s my favorite sound in the entire world, warm and rich, full of secrets that he’s just about to tell you. Something alive, and bright, right here in stupid rainy, gray Tacoma.
He clicks the door shut behind me—“C’mere”—and I feel lucky. His room is on the bottom floor of our split-level, almost underground. Through the row of tiny windows near the ceiling you can see the moss and grass and mushrooms where the soil meets the air. It’s like a lair in here: guitars, speakers, milk crates full of tapes. His walls are postered floor to ceiling: Jane’s Addiction, Pearl Jam, the Led Zeppelin hermit guy dangling his lantern over the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven.” Each one of those posters is like a world, a place that I could go, a universe that Andy knows and might explain to me. I know I’m already fourteen and I’m supposed to think he’s annoying, but mostly I just want to know everything he knows.
He waves me over to his navy futon couch, green eyes twinkling beneath his rust-colored stocking cap. “Dude,” he says, digging under the futon. “Listen.” He always calls me dude, or man, or Allie—nicknames, carving out a little space for me and him. Even at school. We’re three years apart, so this year’s the first time we’ve gone to the same school since I was eight. He’s basically the most popular senior, and he makes sure everyone knows that I’m his sister, and suddenly I have a lot more friends than I ever did before.
Andy’s, like, the perfect guy to everyone; it’d be annoying, if it wasn’t just the way he actually is. Teachers love him: he gets straight A’s without even trying; he’s an Eagle Scout; a million girls crush out on him, but their parents like him too. None of the grown-ups know he’s where the sophomore stoners go for weed, or that when he says he’s at the game, he and his friends are really streaking t
oo fast down Pearl Street, bouncing beer cans off store windows, zigzagging through flat, low concrete buildings, blazing through the cold gray wet. Or that they bring me along.
He pulls out two six-packs of Olympia, sweat beading on the blue-and-gold cans. “So check it out.”
“Okay?” I say. “It’s beer.” Everyone at school drinks, but I’ve never seen the point. It just makes you talk loud and smell gross the next morning. And when I’m out with Andy and his friends, driving with the windows down, stars flashing fast like fireworks, I don’t want it to be blurry. “So what.”
“I graduate in June,” he says. “As of then, you’ll be on your own. Which means”—he pulls a can out of the plastic rings—“you’ve got eight months to learn to drink properly without making an ass of yourself.”
I just look at him. “Beer is gross.”
“You think I drink this shit ’cause it’s delicious?”
I grin despite myself. “No.”
“You’re gonna need to know how to keep your shit together when I’m not there to look out for you.” He cracks the tab.
I don’t want to think about that. Most kids at our school don’t go to college afterward, and the ones who do mostly stay near Tacoma. But Andy has a scholarship. To UC Santa Barbara. Which is like a thousand miles away.
“C’mon,” he says. “Lemme be a good big brother.”
“Fine,” I groan.
“Okay,” he says, starting the lesson. “So how much have you ever drunk at once?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Like, a beer? Some schnapps?”
“Okay, first of all,” he says, “stop drinking schnapps. That shit is embarrassing. Plus, you’ll wind up with your stomach pumped.” That did happen to some girl who partied behind the bleachers once; it’s like a legend at our school.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’m not into puking peppermint.”
“Good,” he says. “So how many do you think you can handle? Five?”
It kind of scares me when his friends drink that much. Not that I would ever tell him that. I don’t want him to think I’m scared of anything. “Why would I want to drink five beers?”
“You need to know your max. How much you can drink before you black out, get stupid. Guys can be assholes, okay? Plus, I don’t want my kid sister ruining my stellar reputation in my absence.” He smirks. “Go ahead,” he says. “While I’m still here. Figure out your limits.”
I roll my eyes, but then I crack the beer and take a sip.
“No, you gotta chug it,” he says, “like this,” and downs his in one gulp.
I hear our parents’ feet clomp upstairs as I drink like he showed me. Cold flushes the inside of my chest; my head pounds like I ate too much ice cream. “Ow.” I put my hand to my temple.
“Here.” He grabs my wrist and holds a can to the inside part, where the veins are. “Diverts the blood flow.” It does feel better. He turns up Pearl Jam. “You know I saw these guys in Seattle once? I was, like, a year older than you.”
“Really?” It’s 1994, and Pearl Jam is, like, the hugest band ever, aside from maybe Nirvana.
“They were called Mookie Blaylock then. Nobody’d ever heard of them, but Vedder was already amazing. I held up his leg when he stage-dived.”
“Wow.”
“Too bad they just play stadiums now, or I’d take you.” He holds out another can. “Okay, next.”
He downs another beer, then pops the tab on his third and we chug together. I finish before him. “You beat me!” he says. “Badass.” It’s nice to hear him call me that. “They better watch out—you’re gonna turn out hard-core.”
Then he pounds another. Then one more.
* * *
• • •
When the van pulls up in the driveway, the sun’s already set. It’s raining, the kind of steady wet Tacoma’s famous for: moss lines the seams of our waterlogged roof, mounds of wet green straining against the black. Drops thump on Scott’s sky-blue Chevy van, and when he shuts off the ignition, the windshield wipers stop midstroke.
I’ve known Scott since he and Andy were skinny ten-year-olds; he still has the same freckled bony frame, but man-sized now, like all of them. Scott cracks the driver’s door, and I see past him to three more: Dave and Mike in the backseat, Brandon on the passenger side with a bottle of knockoff Jack Daniel’s. They’re all drunk.
“Alison!” Brandon slurs.
“’Sup, sis?” Scott grins at me.
Andy pulls his army jacket over his plaid flannel, tugs his stocking cap toward his bloodshot eyes. “Dude,” he tells Scott, “you’re drunk.”
“So?” Scott laughs.
“So,” Andy says, and grabs at the keys in the ignition, “scoot over.” He pushes Scott toward the passenger seat, missing the keys the first time. Then he swipes again, stumbling a little. This time he catches the keys. He turns the van off, pulls the keys out, clutching them in his hand. “You aren’t driving.”
“What, you’re better off than me?” Scott grins again, and the other guys laugh. I look at Andy, trying to calculate the difference between five beers and however much fake Jack Daniel’s is gone from that bottle. I’m not that good at math.
“Whatever, man, I can hold it better,” Andy says. Mike exhales weed in the backseat. “And I haven’t smoked. Scoot over.” Andy nudges Scott with his shoulder, swaying. Scott moves into the passenger side; Brandon ducks into the back. Andy gets in the driver’s seat. Musical chairs.
“Andy, maybe you shouldn’t—” I start to say, but I don’t think he hears me. He settles in behind the wheel.
“Come with, Al!” Brandon hollers at me from the back. “We’ll get something to eat.”
Andy puts the key in the ignition.
I stand there, rain pelting my shoulder blades, wanting to say something, knowing they’d just laugh at me. Not wanting to be laughed at.
“Pancakes!” Brandon yells, sloppy.
Dave swats him: “Cheeseburgers, man.”
Andy takes his stocking cap off and puts his seat belt on.
I look at our house, Mom and Dad inside, homework and TV; I look at the van, full of wind and speed and Andy’s friends and Andy.
I can feel what three beers did to me; he had more. But he’s done this before, every weekend, even. He knows, right? He knows what’s okay.
Andy turns the key. Rain sticks my hair to my cheek. “You coming?”
His hands are too loose on the wheel. I want to tell him not to go; I want to say, Get out: it’s stupid, it’s not safe. But I know what would happen if I did: they’d laugh and Andy’d be embarrassed; he’d turn to them and say, “Sorry, man, she never really drank before. She doesn’t know.” And he’d be right. I don’t. Time stretches, raindrops beating on the metal roof.
I finally say, “I’ve got a ton of algebra.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Enjoy the buzz. Good job, Al, your first real drinking.” The van rumbles as he turns the key and guns the engine, his friends’ too-loud laughter fading under the hum of the engine. He smiles at me through the windshield, then backs out.
It’s the last time I ever see him.
CHAPTER 1
I sit in fifth-period trig, digging my pencil into the soft pages of my notebook. Ms. Hudock drones on about equations and I take notes, trying to hold the abstract tangle of symbols in my brain. I hate math. All those symbols don’t mean anything. All I want is something real. Something you can hold in your hands and touch. Not numbers and transcripts and grade point averages, not starting salaries or hourly wages. My mom says I have no idea how lucky I am that UCSB is letting me use Andy’s scholarship, how she wrote them a letter and begged, how she never had anyone do that for her; she had to waitress her way through school when Andy was three, when she was pregnant with me. But it doesn’t make me feel lucky. It just makes me fe
el like I’m following some path they charted out for someone else.
After fifth period, I stand at my locker, unloading pointless math books from my backpack, loading in pointless history. My locker’s not decked out; no pinup boys for me. I’ve got a PETA bumper sticker, a mirror, and a Melvins poster, and that’s it. Designed for maximum efficiency and minimum time in the halls. As I reapply my Wet n Wild #501—burgundy so dark it’s almost black—Naomi Gladstone and her popular-girl acolytes cluster by Naomi’s locker. Smirks turn to sneers on their painted-pink mouths when they see me. Naomi shakes her shiny blond hair and leans in to one of her girls, a short one in pegged jeans, permed hair, and Keds. Naomi whispers something in her ear, then looks at me, and they titter like a pack of tiny toy dogs.
Girls hate me; they all have, since freshman year. That’s what happens when you have a “bad reputation.” Even the cool-girl art chicks brush by you in the hallway with their Smiths T-shirts, fading back into the safe tangle of each other, leaving you alone to stare down the guys. It’s not that I care so much what people say, not anymore. The thing I can’t stand is the loneliness. People only see a story, a rumor, what their friend heard last week. They never see you. I wouldn’t mind being a pariah, if it didn’t make me invisible.
As I’m zipping up my backpack, a pack of varsity-jerseyed muscle barrels down the hall. Lacrosse or football, I can’t really tell; all I know is that my heart starts thudding. It’s weird how guys can look down on you and want to sleep with you at the same time. I should be used to it by now, but even after all this time it kind of scares me.
I look around; they’re too close for me to slip away without them noticing. I brace myself. Team Naomi’s voices trill up at the sight of them, hoping for their attention, wanting to be looked at. But the guys ignore them, and they stop at my locker instead.
John McDonnell looks me up and down, mean, his spiky brown hair and freckles giving him a redneck kind of edge. His friends cluster behind him; one of them elbows John. “Check it out, man; she’s alone. Today might be your lucky day.”
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