Authors: Melissa Walker
“I’m sorry,” I say, regretful of the time I wasted.
“It’s okay,” says James. “You were figuring things out.”
I bite my lip and look out at the water.
“What is it?” James asks.
“I just feel like everything I went through, all the stupid drama … you’ve just been through so much more and you don’t act half as bratty,” I say.
“Not even a
quarter
as bratty!” says James. Then he laughs. “I’m kidding. But you can’t compare stuff like that.”
“Yeah, but when I met you I thought you’d never seen a sad day in your life.”
“You did?”
“Yes!” I say. “I mean, you are always upbeat and whistling and just generally humming along with the most positive attitude.”
“And you were, like, Brood-arella,” he says, knocking my shoulder with his.
“Hey!” I protest.
“You were,” he says. “Just ask Crazy Olive.”
“Believe me,” I say, “she made it clear that she wasn’t into my mood swings this summer.”
“Yeah, she’s not a hold-back type.”
“No.” I shake my head and smile.
“Well, that didn’t deter me,” says James. “I liked you right away.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just felt a connection to you. I knew you were a cool person.”
“Who’s done some crappy things,” I say.
“Yeah, well,” he says. “Who hasn’t?”
I sigh.
“You can’t beat yourself up anymore,” he says. “And you can’t compare your thing to my thing or to anyone else’s thing on the how-bad-should-I-feel? scale.”
“This isn’t what I want to be talking about,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Me neither.”
Then I lean in and kiss him again.
“I just want to say one more thing,” he says, interrupting my favorite part of the whole night.
“What?” I ask, tapping my leg impatiently.
“You are great—seriously. Anyone would be crazy not to want to be best friends with you.”
I look up at him. “I wish I saw myself the way you see me.”
“It’s not the way I see you,” he says. “It’s the way you
are
.”
That’s when I remember the paper in my pocket.
“Speaking of that,” I say, “I have something for you.”
I hand him the folded-up note.
“Now or later?” he asks.
“Now.” I watch him read the list I wrote, his eyes lighting up at each line. He laughs a couple of times.
“This one’s Olive’s?” he asks about “You make Clem smile.”
“Yup,” I say. “But it’s true.”
I take out my phone—which I’m still in the habit of having in my pocket—and snap one more summer shot.
The sixteen-hour car ride with my grandparents was pretty intense. Olive and I got the way backseat of their huge SUV, so at least I could zone out and listen to music most of the ride. Olive would poke my arm if someone asked me a question, but mostly people left me alone. I wonder if Mom or Grandma ever had to say goodbye to a guy who made their summer.
I feel a buzz and reach into my back pocket to grab my cell phone.
James:
u home? can’t wait to see you again
Okay, so maybe we didn’t really say good-bye. We said, “See you.” And since he lives about forty miles away, we plan to get together next weekend. I guess we’re seeing how it goes.
I smile at the screen and text back,
home. miss you already
Then I sigh and look around. My room is just as I left it. Books in order on the bookshelf, flower comforter spread neatly on the bed, wicker laundry basket still with that stray gray sweatshirt sitting on top of it, waiting to be washed.
I unpack and lie on my bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling and waiting to get my land legs back—it still seems like I’m rocking back and forth.
The house is really quiet and still with all of us in our separate rooms. I can hear Dad putting things away in the kitchen—he’s clanging the pots around—but it’s distant and muffled, unlike everything on the boat.
I feel a little sad not to be out on the water anymore, but mostly what I feel is different. I take out my journal and reread the letter I wrote out on the dinghy. I add just one thing to the very beginning:
I’m so sorry.
That seems like the way to start. Without defenses, without excuses.
I grab my laptop, and the first thing I do is find the folder called “Every Once in a While.” I drag it right into the trash.
Then I log onto Facebook. There’s a friend request from Ruth—her photo is Mrs. Ficklewhiskers. The message says, “You’re a sailor girl I’m proud to know. Let’s keep in touch!”
Usually I think older people friend-requesting me is weird, but this one’s a connection I’m glad to have. I smile and accept.
Then I click over to the message box and open Amanda’s “BITCH” note—I can’t ignore it any longer. It has just two sentences:
“You really hurt me. I hope you know that.”
I sit back.
“Huh,” I say audibly, even though I’m alone.
The message feels much less angry than I thought it was going to. It seems almost … reparable. Maybe we aren’t broken.
I plug my phone into the computer and download the measly six shots I got over the summer. I wish I’d taken more, I think, as they transfer to the desktop.
I click to open them all at once.
“They’re perfect,” says Olive.
I turn around, startled.
“You have to knock, Livy,” I say, but I’m not mad. I was actually getting lonely after being all by myself in this big room for almost an hour.
She ignores me.
“They’re the whole summer,” she says, still staring at my screen.
I look back to the photos.
Ruth and James, talking on the dock
.
Olive with binoculars, spying on James
.
James sketching by the water
.
Mom in the morning light on
The Possibility.
Mr. Townsend, raising a glass to Dad
.
James’s smile as he reads my love list
.
I open Facebook again. I’m not ready to respond to Amanda, but I will very soon, after I polish the draft in my journal.
I click in my status box and type, “Best Summer Ever.”
Big hugs of gratitude to …
My editor, Caroline Abbey, who is wise and enthusiastic (a great combo) and who helped me map out the back story of this book with paper and scissors spread across a café table.
My agent, Doug Stewart, who freely admits that he can lose himself in teenage love stories, which is a very winning quality.
The whole team at Bloomsbury—especially ace publicists Katy Hershberger and Kate Lied—for thoughtful support of this book (and that dreamy cover).
All the blog readers who helped me think of boat names for this book—you guys are so creative and fun. Special nods to babygirlG, Jenners, and Sirena, who gave me names I used!
Chris Tebetts, who had an amazing title suggestion that fit Clem’s story perfectly.
Kristina Vrouwenvelder, for being an awesome first-draft reader who called me out on the boat-trip details I missed.
Mom, for the river-route details! And Dad, for the e-mails from years ago when they took this boat trip, which I referenced daily as I wrote.
Dave, June, and my whole family, always, plus the friends who’ve shown me what that last
F
in BFF really means.
Small Town Sinners
Copyright © 2012 by Melissa Walker
First published in the United States of America in May 2012
by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers
www.bloomsburyteens.com
Electronic edition published in May 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Walker, Melissa (Melissa Carol).
Unbreak my heart / by Melissa Walker. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Taking the family sailboat on a summer-long trip
excites everyone except sixteen-year-old Clementine,
who feels stranded with her parents and younger sister
and guilty over a falling-out with her best friend.
ISBN 978-1-59990-827-4 (e-book)
[1. Boats and boating—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction.
3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W153625Un 2011 [Fic]—dc23 2011032347
Book design by Regina Roff
Table of Contents