Julia Karr
XVI
To Chicago, where I turned sixteen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I do not want to be the Oscar winner who’s dragged offstage still reciting names of every person they ever thought had anything to do with their accomplishment. In the spirit of not being that person, this will, hopefully, be brief.
I have to thank my sister, Sarah, for teaching me to read when I was three. It was probably self-preservation on her part, so she wasn’t stuck reading to me all the time. But, thanks to her, I have been a voracious reader and ardent lover of books ever since. In the present, she’s been my constant cheerleader and support. My co-worker, Betty Myers, deserves much thanks, too, for countering every muttered word of doubt and discouragement with “keep the faith.” Of course, she did get to hear me “SQUEE!!!” when XVI sold.
Through the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), I found my critique partner, Marybeth Kelsey (also an author), and through her, my other critique partner, Marcy Skelton. Without their friendship and amazingly kind ways of saying, “This part sucks,” XVI would never have been agent-ready.
Which brings me to my fabulous agent, Kate Schafer Testerman of kt literary. Wow! Oh! Wow! She is one hundred kinds of awesome! Her industry savvy, perseverance, and confidence are what got XVI to exactly the right editor—the amazing and insightful Jennifer Bonnell. The very first time I talked with Jen I knew she “got” my story. Her spot-on editing had me arranging, cutting, adding, and tweaking what I’d written in the very best of ways.
Much gratitude goes out to my personal and online friends who were there for me in all my angsty-ness. And I am indebted to all the associates at Puffin/ Speak whose support, talent, and expertise brought about this amazing finished product.
The powers-that-be are tugging on my sleeve to wrap it up, but… there are two more people (the most important ones) who had more to do with me writing than anyone except myself—my daughters. When I started out, Amy said, “If you write a page a day, in 365 days you’ll have 365 pages.” And, Melissa said, “Don’t stop, Mom.” So, I didn’t.
A huge “Thank You!” and a heart full of gratitude to each and every one of you that helped make this dream of mine a reality. I love you all!
I
“Nina, look.” Sandy jabbed me in the ribs.
I glanced up at the AV screen expecting to see the latest vert of back-to-school fashion for sixteens.
“No, there.” Sandy jerked my arm, bringing my attention to the doorway.
Four guys approached us, lurching and swaying through the moving express. They sat across the aisle, immediately crowding together in a knot. A low buzz of unintelligible words, accompanied by the occasional rowdy snort, rose from their cluster.
“They’re eighteen,” she whispered. “I bet it’s that one in the middle’s birthday. He’s cute!” She wriggled in her seat.
By the way he kept admiring the tattoo on his wrist and fingering the Band-Aid behind his ear, where his GPS had been, I knew she was right. I involuntarily touched my own tracker. The tiny grain-sized pellet embedded beneath the skin barely registered on my fingertips. What would it be like to be able to go someplace where you were untraceable?
Before my thoughts went any further down that path, Sandy said, “They’re going into the city to celebrate. I wish—”
“No, you don’t.” My stomach turned at the thought of eighteenth celebrations. We’d heard all about them, particularly the Angel affair. I quickly blocked the images from my mind.
Sandy “humphed” back into the seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Those stories can’t be true. Guys wouldn’t do stuff like that. I mean, look at them…” She leaned toward me conspiratorially, but I saw her peeking at the boys from under her bangs. “Someone that cute could never do those kinds of things. Listen…” She fished around in her bag and handed me a rapido. “You’re the one who took all those art lessons. Draw the tattoo. Okay?” She stuck her wrist in front of me.
“Sandy!” I pushed her hand away. “We could get arrested!”
One of the guys, not the birthday boy, must’ve heard us and looked over. He ogled Sandy the way I’d seen her stepdad do when he thought no one was watching. I grabbed her wrist and thrust it toward him, showing the absence of the obligatory XVI tattoo. He shrugged and turned back to his friends.
“Hey!” She pulled her arm away from me. “He was going to talk to me.”
“It’s not talk he wants, Sandy. Those stories aren’t all made up. Ginnie said that ever since they started the tattooing twenty years ago, girls aren’t safe. She thinks that—”
“She’s your mom. What do you expect?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged, letting it drop. Sandy was so caught up in all things sixteen that there was no reasoning with her. Her mother and mine were galaxies apart in just about every way possible. Mrs. Eskew not only allowed, but encouraged Sandy’s sex-teen ways. She was even prepping her for FeLS. My mother, Ginnie, on the other hand, was doing everything she could to keep me from applying for the program, even though it was about the only way out of our tier-two status. When I tried talking about it with her, she’d say not to worry. I wouldn’t be a low-tier forever. But she never told me how I’d move up. It wasn’t like I wanted to join FeLS, but outside of marrying some upper-tier guy, I didn’t have many options.
Sandy snatched a retractable zine chip from the rack on the back of the seat in front of her. She let go and it snapped back in place. She grabbed another, doing the same thing. I sighed. If she’d reached for a third, I would’ve stopped her. Sometimes I felt more like Sandy’s mother than her best friend.
Her mood suddenly changed, thank goodness. “Scoot over,” she said. “We’re almost to that big farm and I want to see the cows. Can you believe people used to eat meat? Makes me want to puke just thinking about it.”
Sandy’s almost as crazy about cows as she is about boys. Truthfully, we’re both animal lovers. That’s one of the reasons we got to be such good friends. When Ginnie moved me and Dee out of the city and into Cementville, I didn’t think I’d ever find a friend. But the first day of school, I met Sandy. We were both wearing the same shirt, with a horse on the front; and after school she got off the transit at the same stop as me. It turned out that we lived right next door to each other. We’ve been best friends ever since. Even if she does get on my last nerve sometimes.
The dull monotony of suburbia and Cementville finally gave way to an oasis of rolling hills and clumps of trees. As the express approached Mill Run Farm, Sandy and I both pressed our noses to the window like little kids. A herd of black-and-white cows was grazing in the distance. Two horses appeared, racing along the white board fence.
“They’re so beautiful,” I whispered.
Sandy gave my hand a squeeze. “Nina, I know you don’t want me to do anything stupid,” she said softly. The farm faded into the distance, and we settled back in our seats. “Hey, did you get all your homework done?”
“Yep,” I said. “Regional Government and Twentieth-Century Literature. Love the Lit. Hate the Gov.”
We both laughed.
“I’m dying in Lit,” Sandy said. “You have to help me out. Promise?”
“Of course.” She always depended on me to explain books to her, and I didn’t mind. It wasn’t like she couldn’t or didn’t read, she just didn’t get the deeper meanings. I don’t always either, but Ginnie talks with me a lot about what I read and helps me work through it.