by Deb Caletti
Praise for A Heart in a Body in the World
A PRINTZ HONOR BOOK
A BANK STREET CHILDREN’S BOOKS JOSETTE FRANK AWARD WINNER
A NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY BEST BOOK FOR TEENS OF 2018
A CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY BEST BOOK FOR TEENS OF 2018
A BOOKPAGE BEST BOOK OF 2018
AN AMELIA BLOOMER BOOK LIST 2019 SELECTION
YALSA BEST FICTION FOR TEENS 2019 TOP TEN SELECTION
“A book everyone should read right now.” —NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“A vital and heartbreaking story that brings together the #MeToo movement, the effects of gun violence, and the struggle of building oneself up again after crisis.” —ELLE
“Equal parts heartbreaking and hopeful.” —BOOKPAGE
“A moving, unfortunately timely, and gut-wrenching story that will stick with you.” —BUSTLE
“This is one for the ages.” —GAYLE FORMAN, author of the #1 bestseller If I Stay
“Caletti’s novel dazzlingly maps the mind-blowing ferocity and endurance of an athlete who uses her physical body to stake claim to the respect of the nation.” —E. LOCKHART, New York Times bestselling author of Genuine Fraud and We Were Liars
“More than bittersweet… It will nestle inside your brain as well as your heart.” —JODI LYNN ANDERSON, award-winning author of Midnight at the Electric
“Remarkable.” —BOOKLIST, starred review
“A timely novel.” —KIRKUS REVIEWS, starred review
“Powerful.” —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, starred review
“Annabelle exemplifies persisting nevertheless.” —BCCB, starred review
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For my own mother and father, and for theirs, and theirs, and theirs
CHAPTER ONE
Exhibit 1: Recorded statement of Sydney E. Reilly, 1 of 5
Exhibit 2: Aerial photo of 716 Sea Cliff Drive
Exhibit 3: Photo of Lila Shore, Giacomo “Big Jake” Antonetti, and Sydney Reilly, Original Joe’s, North Beach, undated
I had a bad feeling, even before I left home. A strong one. If I’m here to tell you what actually happened, well, it started there. With a sense of dread. Like some pissed-off old ghost was going to haunt me until I heard whatever she had to say. It was eerie and unsettling like that. Urgent.
The feeling was there late at night, when I was alone in the dorm showers and the hot-water pipes creaked and groaned like a dying man, and it was there when I lay awake in the dark, watching headlights flash across the ceiling in a way that made me pull my covers up. But it was there in bright daylight, too, when Hoodean and Cora and Lizzie and Meredith and I went to Cupcake Royale and we made fun of Hoodean for getting vanilla (he always got vanilla). It was there on those last weeks of school, when the sky was blue and the sun was out and the air smelled delicious.
I tried to tell myself there were logical reasons for it. I didn’t want to go to San Francisco anyway. I know it sounds crazy, since Lila lived in that Sea Cliff mansion perched above the Pacific. But I was happy at school—just being in class, or walking around Green Lake with Meredith, picking out what dog we’d want. Or sitting on my bed with Cora under my Frida Kahlo poster, playing our favorite songs to each other. Volleyball in the fall, crew in the spring, dim sum in the International District with Meredith’s parents.
Leaving my friends for the whole summer—that’s why I felt dread, I thought. Especially since things were getting so good lately. I felt like IT was about to happen. I didn’t know what IT was, exactly, just something large, something that would change everything. Maybe IT was love, the passionate, all-encompassing kind, or actual sex, or maybe something else. Whatever it was, I wanted it bad, this something-big. I could feel it coming. I could feel it when my group of friends would be walking down the street, elbowing each other, laughing too loud, and people watched us with what I thought was envy. Or when we’d stroll into Victrola and the men would look up from their laptops to stare, even when Hoodean was with us. God, if I missed IT because I was stuck in a jillion-dollar house with my famous mother, I’d be heartbroken.
Which was another logical explanation for the dark feeling that followed me. Three months with Lila. She was a celebrity, and she was beautiful, but she was still my mother. The summer before, when I was fourteen, I wanted to tell her everything, to be best buds, to do stuff together. And then suddenly I didn’t. Moms—they can be like a winter coat, helpful and warm and cozy, but then spring comes, and it weighs you down and maybe you just want to feel the cold anyway.
But I’m supposed to be telling you the truth, aren’t I? And the truth is, Lila was never like that. She wasn’t a warm and cozy mom like Meredith’s, even if I felt the weight of her.
And the truth is, nothing made that sense of doom disappear—no explanations, no blue sky, nothing. It was persistent. It was spooky.
I didn’t know what that feeling was. I didn’t know which exact ghost from the past was trying to warn me. But she was real, and I didn’t listen.
CHAPTER TWO
Exhibit 4: Yearbook photo of Sydney Elizabeth Riley, Academy of Arts and Sciences, Seattle
A few weeks before I left, I tried to get out of going. I was at Edwina’s for dinner. “Hey, I could live with you for the summer!” I said. I made it sound like an idea that had just come to me, when actually I’d thought about it every night since the ghost started talking.
My grandmother scowled.
“I don’t want to go,” I whined.
But she was having none of it. “Sydney. Stop that. Of course you do,” she said.
Of course I didn’t. The weekend before, Cora and I had gone to her cousin Simon’s baseball game. A cute boy had talked to me by the concession stand and played with my hair, and who knew what else might happen if I stayed for the summer. IT was everywhere, though maybe IT was just more.
“Pleeeease?”
Eye roll.
Because of my mother’s career, and also because Lila wasn’t exactly what you’d call maternal, Edwina pretty much raised me. You probably already know this. She lived with us wherever we went, from our first apartment, to Papa Chesterton’s estate, to the modern house in Topanga Canyon. When I left for Academy in the fifth grade, Edwina came too, sitting beside me on the plane with her purse on her lap so no one would steal it. They chose Academy because Edwina used to live in Seattle when Lila was born, and she liked it there.
I passed their old house often. You picture Lila in Nefarious or in What the Neighbor Knew, and you’d think, No way. Now it was a tiny, crappy rental for university students, with a beat-up couch on the porch and a Huskies blanket covering one window. It was right next to a Wing Zone, which was pretty hilarious. Seeing that house—you understood why she changed her name from Linda Short to Lila Shore. A shore—all that wide space. Solid land on one side, the open sea on the other.
That night at dinner, in the nice craftsman house that Lila bought her, Edwina carried a big platter of ham to the table using pot holders that had seen better days. Ham for the two of us kind of cracked me up. It was probably on sale at Fred Meyer, since Edwina loved a good sale. My friends always liked going to Edwina’s because she cooked big, old-fashioned food, food you barely saw in Seattle, stuff like gravy, like roast, and also because they thought Edwina was colorful. That’s th
e word people use when someone has a big personality but you’re kind of glad you don’t have to deal with them yourself.
“You’d rather stay here with an old lady than go to that big, fancy place?” Edwina stabbed a slice and slapped it on my plate. I had a brief desire to become a vegetarian, because ham always has a way of reminding you where it came from.
“There’s a new boyfriend,” I said.
Edwina met my eyes, and our gazes played a whole film of the past.
“Well. You never know,” Edwina sighed.
“Jake Something-Italian.”
“She likes those tough guys. The Jets and the Sharks.”
“The Jets and the Sharks?” I laughed. “What are those, made-up gang names?”
“You’re kidding me. West Side Story? You never seen it?” She snapped her fingers, danced toward me like a gang-member grandma getting ready to rumble on a dark street.
“Ooh, scary, haha. Especially in those slippers.”
That’s how it was, you know? Lots of things were funny. I folded a piece of ham into a buttered roll. It was so good. I ate one and then another. I wasn’t in that part of womanhood yet where your body was something you were supposed to keep one nervous eye on all the time, like a bank balance. I still belonged mostly to myself, but not for long.
“She’s all gaga in love,” I said with my mouth full.
Edwina waved her hand as if the new guy were a pesky insect. “That beautiful house right on the ocean? You should’ve seen the Mission District, where I grew up. Six miles from there, but another universe. You’re a lucky girl.”
“All my friends are here.” There was no way I could tell her how great things were getting lately, let alone about that uneasy feeling. The way it felt like the shutter of a camera, briefly opening, revealing a dark and gaping hole.
“Remember how much fun we had when we went to Mexico? It’ll be fine.”
“I was eight.”
We did have fun in Mexico. We had an amazing time. I was a little kid, and I wanted nothing more than to be with Lila. She was the treasure you were only allowed to peek at, until one astonishing day you finally got to run your fingers through the pile of gold coins and try on all the gold jewelry and drink out of the golden goblets. Plus, she made whatever we did exciting. We sat under umbrellas and walked through markets and bought stuff and ate in nice restaurants and spent a lot of time staying out of the sun, even though sun is something Mexico happens to have a lot of. I could never really see her eyes in those sunglasses, but she held my hand and it made me happy.
I didn’t know her as a person then. I knew her as a thing I didn’t have in the way I wanted, though maybe that’s true about most parents.
“Cora’s taking a pastel workshop this summer. She wants me to go too.” A last plea. I wasn’t an amazing artist like Cora, but I loved my pastels—the colored dust on my hands, the way you could disappear into an image you created. “I’d be so busy, I wouldn’t even bother you.”
Edwina ignored me. “How about a haircut before you go? I’ll make an appointment. Your hair is a big wall of blonde.” This was how Edwina showed her love. Feeding you, buying you a six-pack of underwear at Target, watching the way you looked even if you didn’t. Being brisk and bossy and occasionally critical. Sometimes you had to remind yourself it was love.
“I like it how it is.”
“No one likes a big wall of brown.”
I put my hair over my face. “I prefer to call it a waterfall of blonde.” When I peeked through, Edwina was rolling her eyes again.
When you picture Lila Shore in Nefarious or in What the Neighbor Knew or in some article in a magazine, you can’t imagine her growing up in a house like that, but you wouldn’t have imagined me right then either.
I always felt too regular to be hers. I was just me, a girl. I was never beautiful. I was never desired.
And then I was.
CHAPTER THREE
Exhibit 5: Framed promotional film poster with partially shattered glass, 27" x 41" featuring Lila Shore in Nefarious
A week before I boarded the plane, Lila called. After that phone call, I felt an actual pulse of worry, a skitter of anxiety under my skin, something more definite than the ghost whisper. I almost didn’t answer. The Mayor’s Cup Regatta was in two days, and I was about to go to practice. Coach Dave gave extra crunches if you were late. The Mayor’s Cup was supposed to be just a fun, end-of-the-season thing, but Academy was always competitive. We were good, and being on that team mattered to me, like it mattered to all of us.
“Baby!” Lila sang. “So, here’s the deal. Don’t be mad. I know I promised it would be just us, but Jake wants to come when I pick you up at the airport.”
“Liiiii-laaa,” I groaned, because, well, typical Lila. A man, a lie. “I haven’t seen you in months. And I don’t even know the guy. It’ll be weird.”
“We’ll have plenty of time alone. Plus, you two need to meet! You’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
She’d just contradicted herself, but whatever. The more important thing was, my head began to throb with tension. History was flashing before my eyes. The bad kind of history, where people do horrible stuff for generations, not the good kind where they learn and do better. “Just don’t marry him before I get there.”
“Oh, baby, don’t. Come on.”
She was exasperated. I could hear her nails clicking against a hard surface. It wasn’t an unreasonable thing to say. As you know, she’d done that before. Lila and men—ugh. Of course I felt uneasy.
There was a long, strained silence. I looked out my window toward the Montlake Cut, the slender neck of the Lake Washington Ship Canal, where the crew team was already gathering. I could see the satiny blue and yellow of their uniforms, the same satiny blue and yellow I was wearing. Meredith would be knocking at my door any second.
“I’ve got to go. Practice is about to start.”
“Oh, not yet! Don’t leave mad. Please. Talk to me some more.”
Lila, well, she could be a conversational hostage-taker, letting you free only after you met her demands.
“I can’t.”
“Syd! Don’t be like that. Stay. Let me just read you this letter I got today. You’ll laugh your head off. An actual letter. Who writes letters anymore? A seventeen-year-old boy, that’s who.”
She laughed, because we always laughed at mail like this. It was one of our things. But I didn’t feel like laughing. I was fifteen, almost sixteen. I went to school with seventeen-year-old boys. I mean, yeah, the whole world watched her, but seventeen-year-old boys were sort of mine.
Right then, Meredith popped her head into my room, and I was so glad to see her, it was like I’d been stranded at sea for years and she was the captain of the tanker who spotted me. I waved madly and gestured for her to come in. Meredith had her Academy crew bag over her shoulder. She tapped her wrist where a watch would be if people wore watches anymore. “We’re late,” she mouthed.
“Meredith’s here. I need to go.”
“She can wait! What have I told you a million times?”
“Don’t be the first one anywhere.”
Meredith pretended to gag.
“Precisely. Oh, you should see the handwriting on this thing! So tiny and restrained! ‘Dear Ms. Shore: I’ve never written anyone a fan letter, but ever since I saw Nefarious, you’ve tormented my imagination. That scene where you’re on the ladder and Brandon Searing lifts your skirt and we see your legs and the white lace of your—’ ”
“Lila, I’m hanging up.”
“Tormented his imagination! Isn’t that a riot? I think he’s got his anatomy mixed up.”
“Stop.” I was pleading by that point.
“Oh my God! I’m late for my manicure. Baby, I have to rush out of here. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
She waited for me to say it back. But I was irritated, plus all kinds of other things jumbled together like the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of my roo
m. I didn’t want to say it. I could hear what I owed just sitting in the silence.
“I love you, Lila.”
Ugh! Whatever. I hung up. Meredith and I took the steps out of Montgomery Hall. “We better hurry,” I said.
“You okay?” she asked. Mer was my best friend. She knew me. She knew the me I was then.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t, not by a long shot. And that irritation I felt? It was going to get worse. A lot worse. Outright fury. “Hey, cute hair.”
Meredith made the ends of her braids dance. And then we heard Coach Dave’s whistle and had to run.
* * *
In the boat, out on the water, I looked down at my own, regular legs. I remember this so clearly, how I examined this one body part like it was the malfunctioning O-ring that might make the whole ship blow up. Those legs were long and skinny and ended with my feet in a pair of Nikes. My knees were as knobby as a couple of oranges. I had a scratch on my calf from when I missed the hurdle during the track unit in PE the week before. There were little golden hairs that shimmered in the sun.
The thing was, my legs were just plain old things to walk on. They had regular jobs. Like running to catch up. Like riding a bike. Like screaming in pain when they hit the sun-hot seat of Meredith’s mom’s car. Those legs would never torment anyone, I was pretty sure.
Here was my experience with desire right then: picking out the cutest boy in my class on every first day of school since I was five and admiring him from afar. That thrilling note-passing in the sixth grade, when Emma English told me that Jeremy Wykowski liked me. Middle school slow dancing, a probably-not-accidental boob touch. That boy from another school who suddenly entwined his fingers with mine at a basketball game, who I fantasized about for months afterward, probably because his real self wasn’t there to mess things up. The last six months with Samuel Crane, involving phone conversations about stuff that seemed deep, kissing behind the metal shop building and a few times in his parents’ basement, hands up a shirt, hands down pants, more like hunting around in your backpack for your phone than anything else. And most recently: the men looking up from their laptops in Victrola. A boy twining my hair around his finger, the smell of hot dogs and mustard around us.
