Girl Out of Water Read online

  “I kind of hate that you’re a good brother.”

  “Sometimes I kind of hate it too.”

  I want to kiss Lincoln before he’s no longer here to kiss, but I can’t because my eyes are damp, and I’m scared if I look at him, it’ll get even worse. I don’t want to say good-bye. I want to keep him here.

  But I would never do that to him when there’s so much of the world he wants to see.

  And if he’s leaving, there’s only one solution. It comes to me so quickly I don’t even think before speaking. “I’ll go with you.”

  He turns to me. “What?”

  “I’ll go with you. I’ll drive with you back to Nebraska.”

  “What?” he repeats.

  “We’ll have a little more time together, and I’ll be able to see my cousins again, and then I’ll fly back with my dad as planned.”

  As I say the words, I know they’re right. I’d love nothing more than to spend a little more time with Lincoln, catch up with my cousins again before the end of summer, take them to the park again, play one more round of Monopoly. It’ll only be a few extra days with them, but the memories will last far longer.

  I see hope flicker in Lincoln’s eyes, but it’s also mixed with confusion. “But you just got back to Santa Cruz. You love home. You want to leave again this soon?”

  It surprises me too. After spending the summer worrying about being gone, I’m ready to leave again. But it’s not that scary this time. I’m not my mom. Leaving isn’t running away.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” I say, pressing into him more and taking his hand in mine. “I learned something pretty cool this summer.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I love home.” I lean forward and kiss Lincoln—more our two smiles touching than a kiss. “But it’ll be here when I get back.”

  • • •

  When Lincoln and I head back to the party, most people have gathered around the bonfire, so we settle down next to them. Marie smiles at me as I sit. It’s a real smile, and I think of how much I’ll miss it when she leaves for college. Spinner sits next to Lincoln and hands him a double-stacked s’more. I have a feeling they’ll stay friends for a long time to come. Eric calls my name from across the fire and tosses me something. I catch the small object, then open my hand to find an almost translucent peach sea marble. “Found it in the surf this morning,” he says.

  I close my hand around it tight and my entire body exhales.

  Tess leans forward, fire flickering shadows across her face, and says, “So, truth or dare?”

  This time I’m not anxious because of the game, I’m anxious because, as I look around the fire, this might be the last time we’ll all play the game together. It might be the last time we sit around this circle, stretching our surf-worn bodies as the night slips away.

  But it’s okay. Maybe we won’t all be in the same place at the same time again, but that doesn’t mean we’ll lose each other. It doesn’t mean I’ll never hunt for sea marbles with Eric or wake up at a disgustingly early hour to surf with Spinner or run sprints down the beach with Cassie. Time doesn’t vanish things; it just shifts them.

  I lean forward toward the fire and grin. “I’ll go first.”

  Hours later, dares have been done, some of which could probably land us in jail, and all I missed this summer slips out from the truths. And I discover a new passion—stories. I never used to hear them from my friends because I was always there for the events. But now they’re fresh and exciting and sparkling. And I’m not jealous that I’m not a part of them. I cherish each tale almost like it’s my own. One day, years from now, when these memories have blended together, I won’t remember the time I missed Eric’s wipeout or the time I missed Cassie’s summer dance recital, I’ll just remember I grew up with a group of really amazing friends.

  Eventually, it’s my turn again. I face Lincoln because I know what he’ll pick. “Truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  I smile. “I dare you to go surfing.” I smile wider and turn to the entire group. “I dare you all to go surfing. Naked.”

  • • •

  We line the coast, dot after dot, surfboards by our sides, clothing by our feet. The wind whips lightly around us, promising smooth, mild waves. Cassie stands on one side of me, Lincoln the other, the glowing ocean in front of us.

  “Ready?” Cassie calls.

  Our readies chorus down the beach. And then all at once, we scream, “One, two, three,” and blast off into the ocean. My strong thighs wade into the surf, and my board accepts me as I jump on and paddle out, watching the perfect wave pulse toward me, as if it were waiting for me, as if it knew I were coming.

  As I mount my board, I see Tess on the shore, dancing, twirling around as if on an invisible string, and I hear my friends holler at the moon as the ocean collects us, racing us toward shore, hurtling us toward home.

  Acknowledgments

  No one told me writing book acknowledgments would be harder than writing a book. I’m terrible with sentimentality and memory. I’ll do my best to thank everyone who supported me. If I forget to mention you, please accept this thank you and preemptive apology.

  To all of my readers with disabilities, thank you for finding this book. I hope you discovered some comfort and joy in it. I’m disabled due to crippling chronic pain. Lincoln’s story isn’t my story, but I hope it helps spread the message that disabled is never a person’s sole characteristic. Our disabilities are a part of us, but they are in no way our full definition.

  To Mom and Dad, of course. You were there for me as a little girl who loved words, as a young adult who wanted a graduate degree in writing, and now as an adult who leans on you in countless ways so I can continue to live and create stories. I love you. And also I love you. And lastly, I love you.

  To the rest of my family, thank you for your constant affection and encouragement. I love you all, but I must specifically thank my grandparents: Papa Bobby, thank you for your love and for buying me tampons at Costco. Grandma, thank you for your love and for never saying no to a movie. Bubbie, thank you for your love and for teaching me the best card games. Zayde, thank you for your love; you are no longer with us, but you are always remembered. Thank you to my older brother Phillip, who is also no longer with us, but always supported my writing dreams, even when I was a little kid with nothing more than a spiral notebook and mechanical pencil with a chewed eraser. Thank you to my cousin Lauren Sandler Rose who constantly showers me with love, and my tenacious cousin Brandon Sabin, who serves this country and taught me about skateboarding.

  To all of the remarkable people I met at the New School, where I wrote the initial drafts of this book. Thank you to all of my fantastic teachers, including David Levithan and Caron Levis. Thank you to my wonderful thesis advisor, Jill Santopolo, who I will always credit with helping turn my manuscript into an actual novel. Thank you to all of my peers, especially those from the Writing for Children program, and especially Elie Lichtschein, Lauren Vassallo, and Meghan Drummond. And especially especially (not a typo because y’all are worth the extra adverb) my three closest friends from graduate school and some of the most talented writers out there: Amanda Saulsberry, Anna Meriano, and Kiki Chatzopoulou. I write better because of you and keep writing because of you.

  To my best friend in the world, Elise Laplante, for always supporting me, especially on the hard path I’ve faced lately, and yes, I’m giving you a shout-out in my book acknowledgments for driving my things from New York City to Atlanta. No one but a true best friend would drive that many hours to bring me my books and shoes.

  Elise, you’re my person.

  To my other best friend, Katie King, for loving my words and me, for taking my author photos, for being an exceptional college roommate, and for loving board games as much as I do. I know you’re going to accomplish great things in graduate school.

 
; To some other wonderful friends, both new and old. It’s been a challenging few years, and y’all have been there for me: Nic Stone, Brittany Kane, Becky Abertalli, Tristina Wright, Marieke Nijkamp, Abbie Blizzard, Laura O’Neill, Katherine Locke, Samira Ahmed, Whitney Gardner, Katherine Menezes, Justin Waxman, Angela Thomas, Raya Siddiqi, Tehlor Kinney, Christy Michell, Misa Sugiura, Deborah Kim, all of my Twitter darlings, and so many others.

  To the people who’ve read this book, from friends to sensitivity readers to peers: Kayla Burson, Laney Berger, Ashley Woodfolk, Jay Coles, Dave Connis, Alex Wing, Melanie Sliker, Kayla Whaley, and again, all of my Writing for Children classmates.

  To my outstanding agent Jim McCarthy. I walked into DG&B as an intern and left as your proud client. Thank you for seeing something in this book and in me. Thank you for answering midnight emails. I look forward to many more years of working together (in which I’ll try not to send you midnight emails).

  To my editor Annette Pollert-Morgan—yes, I’m using the one dash on purpose just for you. It’s been an incredible pleasure working with you. Your insights have made my book the strongest version of itself. I can’t thank you enough.

  To the rest of my team at Sourcebooks, thank you for being passionate, hardworking, and kind. I look forward to getting to know all of you, but for now, special thanks to Katy Lynch, Cassie Gutman, Alex Yeadon, Katherine Prosswimmer, Stefani Sloma, and Todd Stocke.

  To my characters, thank you for barging into my brain and demanding I tell your stories. I hope to meet you again one day.

  And finally to all of my readers, thank you. Perhaps we’ll say hello once more in the pages of my next book.

  About the Author

  Photo credit © Katie King Photography

  Laura received her MFA in writing for children from the New School. She loves books, dogs, and bubble baths—okay, and quite a few people too. She currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia. You can say hello on Twitter at @LJSilverman1.

  P.S. She has never surfed before, and the one time she tried skateboarding, there was a lot of blood.

  Thank you for reading!

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