Christopher Ryan Fenner was found guilty.
After my testimony, Donovan cracked. Just a little. He gave a written statement, but our stories combined were enough to put Chris away for multiple life sentences with no chance of parole. He was charged with corruption of minors, dozens of counts of rape against a child, and transporting a minor across state lines to engage in sexual activity. He’ll never see the outside of a prison again.
My name shows up in the news less frequently but it’s still there more often than I’d like. Along with this year’s school picture, stacked up against one taken of Donovan in court and Chris’s mug shot. I know some people think I ran away until things die down, but there’s no escaping this. Even with the limited Internet access and the absence of a daily paper, I can’t forget that the whole world knows who I am now.
Chris broke up with me and disappeared, but all the while he was hiding out in a shabby hotel at the edge of town, waiting to make his move on Donovan. The city had thawed out by then and he’d called Donovan, invited him to come along on a fishing trip with him and his friends. He asked him not to tell me; he said he hadn’t been sure how to break up with me and that I’d be upset if I knew they were hanging out.
There was no fishing trip. There was just Chris and his car and Donovan with the comic book and pile of snacks he’d picked up along the way.
A few days after Donovan’s call, I swing by the mail room on my way to the house library. There’s a package in my mailbox. A small, padded white envelope with no return address. It’s been slit open because they check all the packages here before we get them. I shake it. Something plastic clacks inside but I wait to open it.
The library is a room on the second floor filled with books we can borrow and computers we can use for a limited amount of time each day. Pete is hanging out behind the desk near the door, pecking away at the keyboard in front of him and stopping every few seconds to stroke at his patchy blond beard. He looks up but doesn’t even make me sign in before I head to the computer farthest away from him.
I set the package next to the keyboard, but decide to check my email first.
There’s one bolded message at the top. It’s from Marisa.
It’s long, and it sounds so much like how she talks that I can picture her sitting down to type it out after a long day of teaching. She says everyone misses me, and not to worry, that summer programs will still be around next year and I’ll still have her full support.
But the part I read over and over is the paragraph where she says it took courage to do what I did, and she admires me for being so strong. That a professional company would be lucky to have me one day.
I get permission from Pete to print off Marisa’s email so that even on the lowest days, I can remember she still believes in me.
Then I pick up the padded white envelope. Turn it over so whatever is inside will drop out. It’s a CD with FOR THEO printed on the front in black marker.
I pull a slip of paper from the clear plastic CD case, no bigger than an index card. In the same neat handwriting as that on the disc, it says:
THIS WAS ALWAYS FOR YOU.
—H.
My shaking hands slide the disc into the slot on the side. When I hit play, I’m rewarded with what I wished for so many weeks ago. As the familiar chords float their way into my ears, brazen and bashful, ethereal and timeless, I see Hosea on the piano bench, sharing something so heartfelt and personal, communicating how he felt about me the best way he knew how.
A few months ago—even a few weeks ago—I would have thought it was a sign. Even after winter formal, I still sometimes thought we were meant to be. I thought about him all the time when I first came here. But now . . . well. Things look a little different when you spend your days with a houseful of troubled girls and a cadre of helpful hippies.
He cared about me, but not enough.
Hosea said I was special, but words don’t mean anything without actions to back them up.
And maybe I am special, but it’s not because he said so.
I log out of my email and stand up, gathering the CD and packaging, and Marisa’s printed email. I nod at Pete on the way out, but I stop in the doorway. The email in one hand, Hosea’s CD in the other. I pause for a moment, then release my grip on the disc and listen as it drops into the trash with a resounding thump.
I keep walking and I don’t look back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m lucky to know so many excellent people who helped make this book a book:
Tina Wexler, you are an absolute gem. I’ll never forget the day you pulled my query from the slush pile, and I’m so proud to call you my agent. Thank you for the unwavering enthusiasm, wisdom, humor, and professionalism. I appreciate all that you do.
To my editor extraordinaire, Ari Lewin: Working on this book has been one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. From the beginning, you understood the story I was trying to tell, and I’m so grateful for your fierce commitment to get it right. Thanks for always being an exceptional person and editor; you’ve helped make this lifelong dream truly special.
Thank you to Katherine Perkins for a keen editorial eye, and the rest of the Penguin team for creating a beautiful, tangible thing from a document that once lived on my computer.
Lisa Barley, I value your friendship, patience, and honesty. Eternal thanks for reading the earliest drafts of this story, indulging me in endless conversations about the plot and characters, and never letting me give up. Much love to Lena Anderson for your loyalty, excitement, and nonstop support. I’m indebted to Stephanie D. Brown, Carrie Burns, and Erika Enk Rueter for reading early versions and providing helpful feedback and encouragement. Leila Howland and Vanessa Napolitano, your quick reads and brilliant notes during revisions were essential to the development of this story. Thanks also to Lesley Arimah and Kelly Kamenetzky for listening and rooting for me, always.
Amy Spalding, thank you for a stupendous amount of support and making me laugh when I need it most. Corey Haydu, Kristen Kittscher, and April G. Tucholke, I am so grateful for your emails and friendship; I’ll never understand how you always know the right thing to say, but I do appreciate it. Alison Cherry, thank you for being so kind and faithfully cheering me on to the finish line.
Los Angeles and Chicago friends, thanks for putting up with my incessant babbling and disappearing acts while I was working on this book—and for being my family away from home. I’m incredibly grateful to Debbie Farr and Sonshine Performing Arts Academy for teaching me how to tap, and fostering a love and respect for all disciplines of dance.
To my big brother, Aclass="underline" I constantly wanted to do what you were doing when we were kids, so I’m really glad voracious reading has always been your thing.
And to my parents, Jerri and Albert, I can’t thank you enough for raising me in a house filled with good books, buying me all those notebooks and pens, and never forcing me outside when I’d rather be in a quiet room, writing. Some of my favorite memories are Saturday mornings spent at the library and bookstore—and also that time you gave me, at my request, nothing but a giant box of books for Christmas. I was seven years old when I told you I wanted to be an author, and you always said I could do it someday if I tried really hard. Thank you for believing in me.