Some of the Parts (27 page)

six months later

B
e back soon.
I write the note and then crumple it up and throw it away.

“Be back soon,” I call to my parents. Then I walk to the doorway, to make sure they heard. They are in the dining room, paint chips and fabric swatches spread across the table like a collage, debating which shade of navy blue is perfectly, absolutely right for below the chair rail. My father is putting up a fight in name only—we all know that this is my mother's domain, the choosing of colors, the application of new skins on the furniture, the arranging of it all.

He just likes to add his voice to the symphony. Another instrument in the daily soundtrack we've all gotten used to hearing again.

They look up at the same time, like expectant puppies. “Going out?” my mother asks. Her face is softer than the one I woke to at the hospital, the hollows of her cheeks filled in again, so she looks more like she did in the family pictures that have started reappearing around the house.

“Just for a drive,” I say. “Maybe ice cream.”

The words they do not say—
please
and
be careful,
among others—hover between us. There are still things we leave to the air, things we don't talk about. I'll never tell them about the jumper, or how close I came to following him, but some of our secrets have come back into the light of day. We are not the same, but we are okay.

The emails my mother gets from people who have read her story on message boards and organ donor forums. The meetings my father goes to. The password protection he added to his computer, and the lock on Mom's nightstand drawer. All the reminders of the sins I committed, and the apologies that I have yet to make.

Just because I learned a lesson or two doesn't mean their secrets are safe.

My car awaits me, an ancient Volvo station wagon that's too heavy to drive fast and too yellow for other cars to miss. Mel dubbed it the Mustard Missile when she saw it, when I hauled it out to the barn—uninvited—to see how her latest tableau was coming along. She let me as far as the front door and balked, said she was too superstitious to show anybody and promised me the first look as soon as she was ready. I think we both knew that was my last trip to the barn, but she did me the favor of that promise, gave me the gift of an un-goodbye.

I'll see her in school, probably.

And Amy. She and Jason Rice have been hanging out, I hear. She could do better, but I won't offer that opinion, even if she asks. And maybe someday I won't have to think about our friendship in the past tense.

I'll see Jackson and Margaret and the others, even though Bridges has all but disbanded—everyone just got tired, I guess, of talking about themselves. There are much more interesting topics. Ms. Doberskiff has bounced back nicely, though, and recently announced that she is going back to school for a degree in abnormal psychology. Maybe even she got bored with our average problems, our stories of sadness and helpless frustration.

Everyone has to move on.

The world is not the same.

I drive to Chase's house, honk the horn to announce myself, and cue up my MP3 player to the beginning of the playlist I made last night. The Mustard Missile's only modern feature is the stereo that Dad had installed, to celebrate me getting my driver's license. The license lives in my wallet, back to front with Nate's. Same little red heart in the bottom right corner.

His gifts.

I put a check mark in that little box on the RMV form. I did that. Not because I thought it was the right thing to do, but because Nate got me to the ceiling once and I know now he was a far better person than I am. He was good, and he was real. So I will copy what he did, mimic his goodness, until I figure out what mine will look like.

I pull my sleeve up to the inside of my elbow, where his name is written, tattooed in my mother's handwriting. She wrote it for me on a piece of paper, drove me to the tattoo place, and held my hand while a guy with words all over him inked
Nate
onto my arm. My mouth watered with the pain but it was worth it.

He got me to the ceiling.

I'll take him everywhere else.

The Abbotts' front door opens, and Chase comes out, blinking at the insane brightness of the sun. The sky is cloudless blue, endless and wide like an ocean above us, and he gets in the car and I think about how I will kiss him later today, so that every kiss we've already had will pale in comparison. I make that silent promise, and I reach one finger to the impatient stereo, and I press play.

And we drive.

Stories are born in the hearts of their writers, but they can't become books without a whole lot of help. My boundless thanks to:

My family—especially my children, who remind me always why stories matter.

My editor, Melanie Cecka Nolan, who saw what this story could be far beneath what it was.

My agent, Linda Pratt, who found me exactly when I needed her.

My Monday-morning ladies: Jennifer Elvgren, Kathryn Erskine, Kathy May, Rosie McCormick, Anne Marie Pace, Fran Cannon Slayton, and Julie Swanson.

The Super-Secret, All-Powerful YA Binders.

The VCFA community.

And last, but most certainly not least: teachers, librarians, and independent booksellers everywhere, who work with passion and unwavering dedication to inspire readers of all ages. You open doors, you reveal worlds, you save lives. Thank you.

If you would like to learn more about organ donation, please visit
organdonor.gov
.