Mom finishes chewing her forkful of salad, dabs at her lips. “Oh, maybe those new condominiums over by the inlet. Just until we get our bearings. It won’t change anything for Samantha. She’ll still go to Hodges.”
“Right,” Tracy mutters. “God, Mom. Hasn’t enough changed for Samantha already?”
I don’t say anything, but in a way Tracy’s right. Who was that girl who trailed in here at the beginning of the summer, with Nan, her best friend, fretting about Tim, baffled by Clay, keeping secret her crush?
But then, that’s exactly it, isn’t it? Everything big has already changed.
Our house was Mom’s work of art, her testament to the fact that she deserved the best of everything. But what I loved was the view. And for so long, that was who I was. The girl who watched the Garretts. My life next door.
But I’m not that watcher anymore. What Jase and I have is real and alive. It has nothing to do with how things look from far away and everything to do with how they are up close. That won’t change.
Chapter Fifty-three
Now it’s early dawn, Labor Day weekend. School starts tomorrow, with its cavalcade of homework and AP classes and expectations. When I open my eyes I can already feel the change, the lazy air deepened now, New England’s summer days yielding to the crispness of fall. I bike to the ocean for a predawn swim, focusing on my strokes, then floating in the waves, looking up at the stars fading in the sky. I will make swim team this fall.
I’m back home before the sun has fully risen and just out of the shower when I hear him.
“Samantha! Sam!” I rub my towel over my hair and walk to the window. It’s still dark but lightening up enough that I can see Jase standing below by the trellis, something in his hand.
“Step aside for a sec,” he calls up to me.
When I do, a newspaper swings up and in the window, in a perfect arc.
I pop my head back out. “What an arm! But I don’t subscribe to the Stony Bay Bugle.”
“Look inside.”
Snapping off the rubber band, I unroll the paper. Inside is a perfect puff of Queen Anne’s lace, fragile and blooming around a center as green as spring, with a note around the stem. Come next door. Your chariot awaits.
I climb down the trellis. There, in the Garretts’ driveway, is the Mustang, the shredded seats replaced by smooth brown leather, the front part painted a dazzling racing green.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
“I wanted to wait till it was perfect, new paint job everywhere. Then I realized perfect could be too long.”
“No dancing hula girls yet,” I note.
“If you feel like dancing—or doing the hula—be my guest. Although the front seat is kinda cramped. You might have to go for the hood.”
I laugh. “And scratch that paint job? No way.”
“Come on.” He opens the side door with a flourish, ushering me in, then jumps in himself, vaulting easily over the driver’s-side door.
“Suave,” I say, laughing.
“Right, huh? I practiced. Key to avoid landing on the stick shift.”
I’m still laughing as he turns the key in the ignition and the car roars to life.
“She runs!”
“Of course,” Jase says smugly. “Buckle up. I’ve got something else to show you.”
The town is still and quiet as we ride through the streets, too early for stores to open, too early for Breakfast Ahoy to unfurl its awning. But the paper boys have already done their job.
We drive down the long shore road and wind up in the beach parking lot, near the Clam Shack, where we had our first date.
“Come on, Sam.”
I take Jase’s hand and we walk on the beach. The sand is cool, firm, and damp from the receding tide, but there is that shimmer of heat in the air that tells you it’s going to be a scorching day.
We walk out on the rocky path to the lighthouse. It’s still fairly dark, and Jase holds a steadying hand to my waist as we clamber over the huge crooked stones. When we get to the lighthouse, he pulls me toward the black enameled pipes that form the ladder that takes you to the roof.
“You first,” he says. “I’m right behind you.”
At the top, we duck into the room where the huge light faces the ocean, then climb out on the gently slanted roof. Jase looks at his watch. “In ten, nine, eight…”
“Is something going to blow up?” I ask.
“Shh. Perks of being a paperboy. I know exactly when this happens. Shh, Samantha. Watch.”
We lie back, hand in hand, look out over the ocean, and watch the sun rise over the roof of the world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Though I never thought writing was a solitary job involving the author and a drafty garret, I had no idea before this book just how many people I needed in order to translate the words I wrote into the book in your hands. I’ve been beyond lucky.
I’ll start with my amazing and infinitely supportive agent, Christina Hogrebe of the Jane Rotrosen Agency. She brilliantly balances knowing the marketplace with thoughtful story analysis and nervous-author support. She is absolutely magical.
Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey, also of Jane Rotrosen, who said those magic words—“you definitely have ‘it’”—that kept me writing. Carlie Webber brought her YA expertise and her savvy questions behind the scenes, helping more than I can say.
And then there is Jessica Garrison, my editor. It was one of the luckiest days of my life when she read My Life Next Door and put her talent and skill behind it. There isn’t a page of this book that hasn’t been improved by Jess’s eagle eye, attention to detail, and creative flair.
“Thank you” is insufficient for the whole team at Dial/Penguin Books for Young Readers. Regina Castillo’s supernatural memory for both grammar and plot points saved me from many a mistake. Kathy Dawson and Jackie Engel both believed in this book even during its awkward adolescence. Theresa Evangelista gave me an even better cover than I could have imagined, and Jasmin Rubero gave my words such a gorgeous look.
This story would never have made its way to the final chapter without the patience and honesty of my beloved FTHRWA critique group. They supplied everything from updated teen slang to unstinting hand-holding. Thank you Ginny Lester, Ana Morgan, Morgan (Carole) Wyatt, Amy Villalba, Jaclyn Di Bona, and Ushma Kothari. Plus my hometown friends, who handed on essential knowledge about the innards of cars, the workings of the teenaged mind, and the consequences of medical disasters.
And then there’s CTRWA. After the first meeting, I called my husband and said “I’ve found my people,” and you guys have been that and more. An extra shout-out to Jessica Anderson, who honed my pitch, to Toni Andrews, who put up with endless newbie questions.
Like her footwear, Kristan Higgins’s generosity toward new writers is rightfully the stuff of legend. Kristan always went beyond the call of duty. I thank her and the talented clones she MUST have. Right?
Finally, Gay Thomas and Rhonda Pollero were utterly unswerving in their kindness all through my trip from their fortunate editor to fellow author. Like Charlotte the spider, they are both rock-solid friends, and amazing writers. I’m honored and lucky to know them.
As for my children—you give me endless laughs, every best moment, and constant reminders of what really counts. I love you more than anything.
My sister, deLancey, held my hand and looked out for me through this whole process. How lucky I am to have a sibling so fiercely protective, fearlessly honest, and fantastically funny. Who never dated blond tennis players. Of course not.
My father—who has always been my hero. And Georgia, my beloved stepmother.
And my husband, John, who took me at my word on our first date when I said “I am a writer” and never stopped pushing me to make that boast real. You are my most faithful fan, my biggest PR agent, and kindest critic.