Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  He is taking a final look around when I finally get my legs functioning again and start up the stairs. The movement catches his eye and for a second he freezes.

  And then, zoom, he’s in front of me.

  “Ingrid! Hi.”

  “Hi,” I manage, rather dorkishly. “Andreas said . . . you stopped by.”

  “Yes, I . . .” He flushes, clearly at a loss for where to begin.

  “Let me just say . . . I am an idiot.” I dive right in. “I completely, unequivocally forgive you for not officially breaking up with Autumn before we started making out backstage during the play, and in fact, it’s not even something that needs to be forgiven by me, anyway. I’m over it, in other words. And we don’t have to rehash it . . . unless you want to.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “Also, I want you to be in my life no matter what. We can be friends, or . . . whatever.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “‘Whatever’?”

  “I’m comfortable with ‘whatever’ . . . as a starting point,” I say, trying to act calm despite the somersaults in my stomach. I want to be honest and brave, but hopefully I can do so without acting like a freak. “I still care about you. I never stopped. But you might have a girlfriend. And I’m moving to London. We have a lot of talking to do. I have a story to tell you. If, that is, you’re willing to hear it,” I say.

  “I’m free right now.”

  “It might take the rest of the summer,” I warn him. “It’s a long one.”

  “That’s fine,” he says. “I have time.”

  “All right, then.” I say this, but then nothing further comes out of my mouth because all I can do is look at him, and somehow I am seeing and hearing the city around us—cars and buses and cyclists, small children playing in a park across the way, birds chirping, the sun casting its late-afternoon gold over everything—and at the same time there is only Isaac, standing on the stairs in front of me with a gaze so loaded, and yet so pure.

  “I missed you,” he says, into the too-long pause.

  I catch my breath, still fixed to the spot mere steps from him.

  “No one has ever driven me as crazy as you drove me,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to say.

  “It’s all right. You frustrated me, but you also made me think. And feel. And change. It’s not a bad thing.”

  “It’s not an easy thing, either, Isaac.”

  “Maybe not,” he says. “But it was good. We were good.”

  “Past tense?” I say, then put a hand up to stop him from replying. “No, don’t answer that yet. You can’t predict how you’re going to react until we’ve talked. I want to do this properly.”

  “That sounds both rational and wise,” he says, and his eyes are so deep, so intent, so warm, staring into mine.

  “I know I wasn’t so great at communicating sometimes. I’m not so scared anymore,” I say, the sudden urge to stare down at my feet, or up at the theater, or anywhere but directly at him belying my words. “Or . . . I am, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

  Isaac smiles like he can sense my struggle and is gently amused by it.

  “What?” I say, chin lifted.

  “Just . . . maybe it would diminish your fear to know that whatever you tell me, nothing will change three particular facts,” he says.

  “Which are . . . ?”

  “One: I’m very fond of London.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Two: I do not have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh. Okay, good,” I say, trying to remain cool even though I want to start cheering and jumping up and down. “What’s the third?”

  “Three: I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

  “Oh!” I say, with an embarrassing gasp. “Um. Here?”

  “The students are gone and we have the steps to ourselves,” he says with a wave of his arm. “Not sure if that fits in with your plan of doing things properly, though.”

  “The plan . . . is flexible.”

  “Well, as always, we can discuss it,” he says with a hilarious glint in his eyes. “At length, if need be.”

  “No,” I say, melting and laughing at the same time.

  “No kiss?”

  “No need to discuss at length.”

  “Excellent. Fantastic,” he says, coming closer. “Do we need to count to three?”

  I grin and answer him, but not with words this time.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is a mostly solitary job, but getting it right, and then out into the world, takes the belief, hard work, and creativity of many people. To those people, I owe enthusiastic thanks and deep gratitude.

  To my agent, Emmanuelle Morgen, who has incredible determination and dedication, more patience than I ever will, and who always pushes me to do my best.

  To Leila Sales and Lynne Missen, my dream team of editors, whose intuition, instincts, and total commitment to the book have made it so much better than it could ever have been without them, and who have been so incredibly approachable and attentive.

  To copyediter Laura Stiers, for her incredible attention to detail, and particularly for saving me from the typo that would have had Ingrid going to a “pubic school” instead of a “public school.”

  To Janet Pascal for being another set of eyes during copyediting, and for sharing her expertise on the subject of opera.

  To Theresa Evangelista and Lisa Jager, for coming up with the stunning U.S. and Canadian covers.

  To the publicity, sales, and marketing people at Viking, especially Katie Quinn, and to Vikki VanSickle (publicity) and Liza Morrison (head of sales) and their teams at Penguin Random House Canada. The work you do is absolutely vital, and I am lucky to have you.

  To all the sales reps who will be going around to stores with ARCs and catalogues, I know you have other books to promote too, so thank you in advance for time you give to mine.

  To my foreign rights agent, Whitney Lee, for doing such an excellent job selling rights.

  To my wonderful publishers Carlsen Forlag in Denmark, Piemme in Italy, and Gallimard in France. I can’t wait to see your editions of Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined.

  To Shaylyn Saville, for info on canoeing and camping, and Sue Saville, who sent me stunning photos from Shay’s trips.

  To Gillian Stecyk, who helped me with information about vocal training, specific pieces of music, opera singers, and the world of opera.

  To Stephanie Saville, my go-to person for insights on at-risk teens and addiction therapy, and always a person of deep wisdom.

  To Brian Younge and my cousin Richard Younge for specifics about small airplanes and unconventional landing circumstances.

  To Amanda Almeida for info on how high school plays are run these days.

  To Alexander Galant, who came up with the name of the fictional school, Ayerton.

  To the trusted readers who gave me feedback, or just let me talk through plot points at various stages, Bev Rosenbaum, Maureen McGowan, Jon Clinch, Caroline Leavitt, Adrienne Kress, Caitlin Sweet, Elizabeth Letts, Michael Wacholtz, Elyne Quan, and Madelyn Burt.

  To my larger community of writing buddies, including those mentioned above, who make this whole thing less lonely, and often give behind-the-scenes support: Karen Dionne, Sachin Waikar, Keith Kronin, Renee Rosen, Lauren Baratz-Logsted, Joanne Levy, Eileen Cook, Martha Warboy, and the members of the Torkidlit group, plus the many friends I’ve made at Backspace.org.

  To Mike Kleinberg, for his help in 1990, and Christine Thompson and my other teachers and Holy Trinity School—when you read the book, you’ll know why.

  To the late Patricia Kern, whose stories about the opera world, told in bits and pieces over the years, seeped into my bones and took up residence, and whose passion, eloquence, and sense of humor, always inspired me.

  To my par
ents, Cindy and Gary Ullman, for exposing me to so much opera and theater as a teenager, for helping me see so much of the world, for sending me on a certain camping trip, and for believing in me, even when they don’t always quite understand what I’m up to.

  To the many awesome members of the Ullman, Saville, Younge, and Wacholtz families,including my dad, Brian Younge, and Jim and Beatrice Wacholtz, who continue to be such enthusiastic readers and supporters.

  To my husband, Michael, for being my most passionate and stalwart supporter, cheerleader, butt-kicker. And my two smart, adorable, hilarious girls, T and S, who, along with Michael, shower me with love, and pull together to keep things running when I’m on a deadline. You are the loves of my life.

  Thank you.

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