The Other Way Around (31 page)

Now G looked a bit more surprised. “You're serious,” she said.

I nodded. “Don't tell Nancy. She thinks it's all about some girl.”

“Well, there'll always be a girl,” G said.

“If I'm lucky.”

G shook her head, “You're a lot more than lucky, Andrew West.”

***

When Mom dropped me off at the airport in June, we said our good-byes at the curbside. I had a plane to catch, and she had a meeting with the board of trustees. All I had for luggage was a hiking pack I bought with Mima's money and my Spidey sack strapped to the bottom. I promised to return in three weeks to the summer job I had lined up at the mini-golf place, but when I went to close the car door Mom threw the car into park and jumped out, nearly decapitating herself with the seatbelt strap. She ran around the front of the car and wrapped me in a huge hug. My cheek came just to her chin, and she pressed her lips to my forehead before getting back in the car without another word. I watched as she gave me a stilted headmistress-type wave and then pulled into traffic, cutting off a cab in the process.

I slept for most of the flight, and when I was awake I ignored the second-rate action movie flashing above my head and stared out the window at the changing landscape below. I flipped through the divorce diary, reading bits and pieces of my adventures. Certain moments, like running through the suburbs covered in finger paint, or kissing Emily's neck at the farm, made my pulse race. But I didn't want to just rehash the good stuff. I wanted to remember the ways I wanted to be different. As a symbolic act I ripped out the original pages of the notebook with their stupid lists, crumpled them up, and stuffed them in the tiny lavatory trash can.

Emily and I had talked only briefly when I told her I was coming out. She sounded excited and said she would try to meet me at the airport. If she wasn't there, she told me to call the house and someone would tell me which bus to get on. When I walked off the plane I peeked over shoulders and around heads, hoping I could see her before she saw me. When at last I came through the gate, I scanned the crowd and let out a disappointed sigh. A skinny boy with glasses was grinning excitedly at someone behind me. I moved to one side and then looked at him again. It was Emily. Her dreads were gone, and her hair was cropped short and pixie-like. When I got closer I saw her glasses were thick purple frames with no lenses. Everything else was pretty much the same. She was wearing baggy jeans and two or three sweaters layered on top. I dropped my carry-on and rubbed my eyes like I was seeing things. She threw back her head and laughed at my reaction. Then she jumped towards me and threw her arms around my neck. “Drew!” she screamed delightedly.

I pulled away and stuck my hand out, smiling but serious. “It's Andrew,” I said.

There is the journey in the book and the journey of the book. In both cases I have had invaluable encouragement and collaboration from many people in bringing this story to the page. Kris White and Megan Frazer Blakemore lent a fantastic critical eye to early drafts. My super agent Lauren MacLeod helped me find
The Other Way Around
while showing endless patience and unflagging support. I am eternally grateful that this book found its home with the brilliant Andrew Karre; both for his editorial wizardry and dedication to telling the stories of adolescence.

To my fellow teachers and students both past and present—you are all in here. You are all a part of the story.

Thanks to Tara for the constant ear. You are my level. And to Carrie who is on whatever side I'm on. Thanks to all my friends who have shared with me their excitement, curiosity, and interest every step of the way.

To Mom and Dad, you were the first to hear my words. It is with you and because of you, that so many more are possible. With Noah and Ali, you are my Kaufmans. Thank you for loving and reading, sharing and eating.

Finally, thanks to Lance and Eliana for granting me time in “the cave.” Lance, thank you for your unconditional love and support of my crazy monkey brain and the stories it spins. I know you think I did it without you, but you are wrong.

Sashi Kaufman is a middle-school teacher and an author. She lives in Portland, Maine, with her husband and daughter. Visit her online at
www.sashikaufman.com
.