Proof of Forever (26 page)

Zoe hunches forward and switches off the car radio. At the funeral, there was a lot of music—Doug Ryder played his guitar, and several girls from Joy's old choir sang a hymn. Right now, she just wants silence.

She keeps picturing the ashes, Joan and Allen standing at the end of the pier and sprinkling them out over the lake. It's only the first day of September, but a light breeze already stirs in the mountains, and at that moment, it seemed to pick up, causing the ashes to lift on a gust and separate, blending with water and sky, becoming nothing.

As her car rises up over the hill on Ossipee Trail, Zoe passes the
ENTERING LIBERTY, NEW HAMPSHIRE
sign and shakes her head. She and Cal have always joked that they should print the sign on both sides—because it's even truer when you're leaving town.
And she
will
be leaving, for college, in precisely seventeen hours. She can't quite believe it, but all her bags are packed and her mom even requested tomorrow morning's shift off to take her to breakfast before the drive.

She catches a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror—she looks like she hasn't slept all week, which is basically true. There's smudged mascara under her eyes, which are tinged red at the edges. She has gone through so many emotions in just a few days—sorrow, anger, confusion, guilt—that she feels exhausted somehow, like a wrung-out towel.

Zoe fumbles with her cell phone, taking a breath before dialing. As she looks through her windshield at the town she has known all her life—the spire of a church poking up over the next hill; ski shops directed at the tourists who head through here to North Conway, currently closed for the season; Mr. Jenklow returning his lawnmower to the shed at the side of School Road—a sense of calm settles in. She knows, without knowing how she knows, that wherever Joy is, wherever her soul has gone, she's going to be okay now. Even better than okay.

Calvin answers on the third ring. “Zobo.” His voice is restrained, like he's not sure what tone to take. What tone
do
you take with the girl you were friends with all through high school and then who you dated, briefly, and who broke up with you out of nowhere, and then whose best friend died less than a week later?

“Hey, Cal.”

“My mom wants to know if you're still coming over for lasagna tonight. She's planning a big good-bye feast for both of us,
so you won't want to disappoint her.” But she knows what he really means—that even though they broke up, they'll always be friends. That
he'd
be disappointed if they didn't get one last chance to say good-bye before leaving town.

Zoe smiles. “Yeah, of course I'm coming.”

There's a pause. “I would ask you how your day was,” Cal starts, “but that just seems sort of . . . wrong.”

Zoe sighs. “Sometime I will tell you all about it. After I even figure out how I feel.”

“Any time, Zo. So, I'll see you in, like, an hour?” he says.

“Actually, I was calling because there's . . . something I wanted to say . . . to tell you . . . before I come over tonight.”

“Okay, shoot,” Cal says, and she can hear him bracing himself, though what could be worse than telling him she didn't feel the way he did?

And so she tells him: about
her
, about the secret she has been pressing down inside for so long she
almost
didn't know it was there. She tells him that she likes girls. How Ellis—maddening, elusive Ellis—made her see it finally, though it felt like she was the last person to know. She wasn't being used, or messed with. Or maybe she was. It doesn't matter.
She
was the one who couldn't admit that she actually wanted it, actually
liked
it. More than liked it. It had been a taste of freedom.

Hopefully only her first.

She hasn't really had any practice saying the words, so they come out jumbled and awkward, and during the brief silence that follows, she's sure she has somehow said it wrong, that she failed to explain what she really means, that she has made things even
more confusing between them.

Finally, she hears Cal let out a breath. “All right,” he says slowly. “So . . . that's it?”

“Wait, you have no reaction? You aren't, like, shocked or mad or something?”

“Why would I be mad? Look, Zo, you've been one of my closest friends for the last few years. This doesn't change that. It's not like you're telling me there is no spoon,” he says with a small laugh.

“Oh, the Matrix is very real, Cal,” Zoe replies, feeling a nervous smile creep onto her face. “Spoons are just an illusion.”

“Then what have I been eating my soup with?”

She laughs, surprised by how good it feels. “Your brain?”

Now it's Cal's turn to laugh. “That's disgusting.” He sighs. “But . . . thank you.”

“For what?” Zoe says, with a new sense of relief. Over the hills, the sun is still shining high, turning a faint peachy orange as evening eases in.

“For telling me.” He pauses. “At least I know you didn't dump me because you secretly hate my taste in music or think my feet are gross.”

“Your feet
are
gross.”

“I'll ignore that. And now that all that's out of the way, we can move on to discussing the mix I'm making for your drive tomorrow. I thought I would start off with something more indie and then move toward pop hits to represent your journey into the—”

“Cal!” Zoe says, shaking her head.

“What?”

“We can talk about that later.”

He sighs. “Fine. So Zoe, just tell me one more thing and then I'll hang up.”

“Sure, what is it?” she asks, tapping her steering wheel as she makes her way onto her street, the one she has lived on for her entire life. She can see her house down at the end of the block.

“I just want to make sure”—his voice gets quiet—“that you'll, you know, be okay.”

Zoe squints into the distance and takes a moment before answering. She thinks again of the funeral—how she held Luce and Tali's hands through the whole service, feeling like if they unlinked, even for a second, she might not be able to stand anymore. How, afterward, they promised to get together over Thanksgiving break, and how relieved Zoe felt, knowing they would still be there—somewhere—caring about her, inextricably linked to her. And not through the shared experience of losing Joy . . . but of finding her again, of rediscovering the invisible thread that had always tied them together before and lifted them up, made life better.

They've been given something that most people never get: a second chance.

Of course, she can't help hearing Joy's voice in her head, too, always insisting that life improves with time, that someday when camp was long over, they wouldn't have to settle for just okay.

She feels herself choking up all over again. “You know what, Cal?” she says. “I'm going to be better than okay. I'm going to be fantastic.”

Thank you first to Lauren Oliver, a dear friend and phenomenal writer, whose courage, brilliance, and hard work inspire me daily, and without whose support I may never have written this book. Thanks also to my remarkably relentless, genius, kick-ass agent and invaluable conspirator Stephen Barbara; and to the most nurturing and insightful editor in the world, Rosemary Brosnan, who has helped turn my first baby manuscript into a full-grown book with a wild mind and heart of its own.

I'm indebted to Susan Katz, Kate Jackson, Jessica MacLeish, and the rest of the very vibrant HarperTeen group, including Erin Fitzsimmons, whose brilliant design made the book beautiful on the outside. To Rhoda Belleza, Angela Velez, Kamilla Benko, Tara Sonin, and Alexa Wejko, the sharp-minded and fashionable editors at Paper Lantern Lit (you all wear my clothes so well!); to Jessica Regel and the rest of the formidably awesome Foundry team; and of course, to my writing retreat rivals in Type A-ness: Jess Rothenberg, Rebecca Serle, Leila Sales, Courtney Sheinmel,
and Emily Heddleson . . . not to mention puppy mascot, Rufus, and honorary writing partner, “Bebe” (Theo) Barbara.

Thank you to EVERYONE in my big, loud, boisterous family for forcing me to have a voice, believing in it always, and even, occasionally, listening to it. Thank you to Laura Schechter, my “first marriage,” who has encouraged me to let go, to leap toward that which scares me most, and to fly.

And of course, thank you to my husband, Charlie, who has offered patience when there could have been none left, who has fed me in many ways but especially the literal way, and most of all, who has shown me the tenderness of great love.