Solving for Ex (31 page)

As always, first and foremost thanks go to my best friend, editor extraordinaire, and partner in publishing insanity, Jamie Grey. I’m so glad you’ve been by my side for all of this craziness.

And to my publishing mentor and dear friend, Trisha Leigh – I would never have been able to do this publishing thing so confidently, or with nearly as great a sense of humor and perspective, without you. Thank you.

Cait Greer saw this draft from its literal start to its literal finish, and so many steps in between. From brainstorming plot points to reading first drafts to serving as my official math editor to formatting this beauty for digital editions, I literally could not have made this book happen without you. Thank you.

I would be remiss to leave Jane Austen out of the thank-yous, even though she passed away many, many years ago. Thank you for such poignant, heartbreaking, smart, and hilarious original material. There’s a reason so many people write reduxes of your work. I hope that this one, published on Mansfield Park’s 200th anniversary of publication, is worthy of your approval, wherever you are.

To my earliest readers, Amanda Olivieri, Stephanie Diaz, Valerie Cole, Alexa Hirsch, Cait Greer, Darci Cole, Raven Ashley, and Alex Yuschik, thank you so much for your observations and suggestions that helped shape Solving for Ex into a final product, and for your support and reassurances. I absolutely could not have done this without you.

To Becca Weston, my faithfully awesome copy editor, thank you so much for your time and attention to detail that brought this book to its final polish.

Thanks go out to Hafsah Laziaf, who designed Solving for Ex’s cover. It’s absolutely perfect.

Book bloggers and early readers are some of the most amazing people on the planet, and some of them have followed me to Young Adult Contemporary from my first two sci-fi books. To the bloggers and my devoted readers who have given so much cheerleading, early reviews, and unsolicited promo to this book, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I wrote this book while on maternity leave after my littlest daughter, Peninah, was born. She won’t be able to read this for years, but I want to thank her for being the sweetest little infant, content to eat, be cuddled, sleep, and then sit in her baby seat or under her play mat for hours by my side, watching me type. Everyone thought I was crazy for having a fourth baby, Penny, but you’re the only one of my children who has ever let me write in peace – a miracle indeed. I’m glad you’re here.

Last but certainly not least, thanks to my husband David for never thinking that writing books and publishing them is anything less than hard, worthy work. Not everyone has as much understanding, let alone support, from their spouses like I do from you, and I don’t take it for granted.

Raised on comic books and classic novels, Leigh Ann developed an early love of science fiction and literature. As an adult, she rediscovered her love for not only reading, but also writing the types of fiction that enchanted her as a teen. Solving for Ex was born of her love for Jane Austen’s classics, and how they taught her that love stories could be funny and wickedly smart.

Leigh Ann, her husband, and four children live in Columbus, Ohio. When she’s not immersed in the world of fiction, you can find her obsessing over the latest superhero movie or using her kids as an excuse to go out for ice cream (again.)

Turn the page for a sneak peek at another YA romance—the upcoming Falling from the Sky by Nikki Godwin.

FALLING FROM THE SKY

by Nikki Goodwin

Chapter One

This is how it always starts. My lungs shut down, and I can’t breathe. My eyes glaze over like syrup on pancakes. My eardrums hit their mute button. The world freezes.

At least until the plane is gone.

My crazy grief counselor said I should pray about things. Pray about my dad and the other victims. Pray for the families who lost loved ones. Pray for Mom and Jordan. Pray for myself. I’m not big on prayer, but I did it anyway because I needed to do something to stay sane.

So now I pray for airplanes, like it’ll really make a difference, but I don’t know what the hell to pray for exactly. A safe flight? No turbulence? A landing on the runway? Lame. How about a pilot who doesn’t fuck up and nosedive into a rainforest and burst into flames? If anything, I pray that they don’t end up like this—like me.

Maybe I should’ve prayed for all of that before Flight 722 met its fate. Then maybe they wouldn’t have crashed into that rainforest. Maybe they wouldn’t have burst into flames and burned to death. Maybe the airlines would’ve realized the pilot was ultimately going to be responsible for killing the others onboard and replace him. And then, maybe my dad would still be here. I’d still have someone to practice free throws with me, and I’d still have someone to come to my games, and I’d still...

“McCoy!” Terrence shouts. He pushes me toward the sidewalk. “I swear, one of these days there’s gonna be a headline that reads ‘Ridge McCoy hit by car while praying for airplane.’”

I don’t even bother with an apology. Terrence has known me long enough to know that it just happens. I don’t mean to freeze in parking lots. I just do.

“You know the guys at camp will think you’re a bit off if you do that in front of them,” he warns me.

He told me the same thing this morning when I got to Dunson Hills Sports Camp. He met me in the parking lot and climbed into my car before we even signed in. Terrence plays basketball for the school a town over from me back home. I’m just glad to have a familiar face around this summer. He knows about my dad’s death and my airplane prayers and my fizzling relationship with Samantha. Fizzling is an understatement. We’re as charred as used firewood.

“You know, we’re only here because you needed new shoes,” Terrence reminds me.

I don’t need a reminder, though. These faded Nikes are about to be out of service for good. I’ve damn near run the soles off of them. I haven’t had the heart to ditch them since they were the last ones Dad watched me play in, but they won’t make it through the summer.

We push through the double doors and enter the food court. Terrence walks over to the mall map and locates the sporting goods store where his cousin works.

“I’m headed to see Demetrice, so holler if you need me,” he says.

I nod. “I think I can handle buying shoes on my own.”

Terrence laughs. “You might need some style advice.”

He disappears into a crowd of people, leaving me alone with the mall map. I give it a quick once-over. I hate lingering around like I don’t know where in the hell I’m going. It can’t be that hard to find a shoe store, so I veer off in the opposite direction of Terrence. He may have style, but I don’t want any witnesses around in case I have a meltdown over replacing my Nikes.

I find a shoe store wedged in between an airbrush shop and one of those stores that sells eighty-dollar jeans and plays techno music. The limited shoe display has nothing blue or silver on white. I’m not much for these neon colors.

The music isn’t much better in here. This stupid pop song bleeds into the techno bass next door, and the only lyric I hear is the one asking me what I would do if I were falling from the sky. This is probably my dad’s way of telling me from the other side to run from this store because not only do their shoes suck, but their music screams “plane crash!” in the most effed up way. I push past the Adidas display in the entranceway and escape before the salesman chases me out of the store begging me to give the new yellow-on-black Nikes a second look. Maybe the mall’s other hemisphere will have better results.

A faded white marble fountain sits in the center of the mall. Water rushes over the three tiers. Two small kids toss coins in and beg their mom to let them ride the carousel as I approach the fountain. I fish through my wallet for any loose change. I find a penny and weave it between my fingers, trying to think of a wish. I don’t really believe in wishing on pennies or shooting stars or 11:11, but right now, I need a wish. Or some good luck. Or just shoes. So that’s what I wish for – to find new shoes. I draw my arm back, and in my best jump shot form, toss the penny toward the highest tier.

“Hey Jump Shot! You look lost!” a voice calls out to me.

The guy who works the carousel stares at me with a goofy smile.

“You look bored,” I holler back.

Maybe that wasn’t the smartest move on my part. He climbs over the side of the booth and walks in my direction. He’s shorter than me, probably five-foot-seven, and he’s a lot thinner. If he wants a fight, I can take him. I stiffen my shoulders and watch him as he comes closer.

“I am bored, but you’re still lost,” he says. “Summer camp?”

I nod and relax my shoulders. “How’d you know?”

“No one else would shoot a penny into the fountain like that,” he says.

Now I feel like an idiot. Not only am I drawing unnecessary attention to myself by practicing my skills next to spinning horses, but I’m standing here like a lost tourist in front of some Native American guy who needs a haircut worse than I do, still wearing the broken-down Nikes I came to replace.

He pulls a coin from his own pocket—carousel coin maybe?—and stares at it before drawing his arm back and throwing it into the fountain. For a second, I wonder what he wished for.

“Where’s the best shoe store around here?” I get straight to my point, hoping he can answer and let me be on my way before his horses stop spinning.

He points behind me. “Down there. Past the candy stand. It’s called Finish Line. They always have the best stock,” he says.

“Thanks.” I turn my back to him and circle the fountain, heading toward Finish Line.

I pull into a parking spot in front of the Dunson Hills Sports Camp sign-in office. Terrence and I go inside to officially sign our souls over for the summer. It’s just like any other sports season – signing a form saying you agree to the rules and understand the consequences of your actions followed by peeing in a cup to prove you’re not a stoner or meth head. At least I don’t have to deal with the lectures about keeping my grades up during summer camp.

“Damn,” Terrence says once we’re outside. “They take shit for real around here.”

Half of the guys on my ball team back home wouldn’t pass the preliminaries here. It’s a miracle we win any games at all. Terrence’s team always beats us, but he knows I got dealt a bad card when it comes to teammates. And my girlfriend. And my dad. Hell, my life is a losing card game.

“See ya back at the room,” Terrence calls out from his car.

I glance down at my new Nikes before I get into my own car. Carousel Guy was right. It didn’t take long to find blue-on-white with a silver Nike swish. I told the salesman I’d prefer to wear them out, and I avoided eye contact with him as he stuffed my ragged shoes into the box in their place. This is where Dad would talk about how new shoes are a start to a new season and a new chapter in my life, but he’s not here to say it, and I’m not as poetic as he was. I glance back at the Finish Line bag in my back floorboard. Letting those shoes go feels like Dad’s plane just crashed all over again. Those damn shoes are going in the trunk when I get to the room. I’m not letting them haunt me all summer.

Driving behind Terrence through the campgrounds, I feel like we’re in sports prison. The buildings are long, narrow, and white. They remind me more of army barracks than dorms. I expected something a little nicer since they gave us these fancy electronic room keys. We park outside of Building C and roam the hallway until we find room eleven.

Terrence and I lucked up that we knew each other prior to camp so we could request each other as a roommate. If we have a third roommate, I hope he’s as laid back as Terrence.

I drop my bags at the end of one of the beds. A single poster of Michael Jordan hangs on the boring white wall. Great—my dad’s favorite player. My little brother is named after freaking Michael Jordan. I want to rip him down from the wall. The fluorescent lights make me feel like I’m in an interrogation room. Maybe this summer camp thing is more like a summer prison after all. I send Mom and Samantha the required “I made it here safely” text while Terrence unpacks his things.