Brandy Colbert: Pointe

I get permission from Pete to print off Marisa’s email so that even on the lowest days, I can remember she still believes in me.

Then I pick up the padded white envelope. Turn it over so whatever is inside will drop out. It’s a CD with FOR THEO printed on the front in black marker.

I pull a slip of paper from the clear plastic CD case, no bigger than an index card. In the same neat handwriting as that on the disc, it says:

THIS WAS ALWAYS FOR YOU.

—H.

My shaking hands slide the disc into the slot on the side. When I hit play, I’m rewarded with what I wished for so many weeks ago. As the familiar chords float their way into my ears, brazen and bashful, ethereal and timeless, I see Hosea on the piano bench, sharing something so heartfelt and personal, communicating how he felt about me the best way he knew how.

A few months ago—even a few weeks ago—I would have thought it was a sign. Even after winter formal, I still sometimes thought we were meant to be. I thought about him all the time when I first came here. But now . . . well. Things look a little different when you spend your days with a houseful of troubled girls and a cadre of helpful hippies.

He cared about me, but not enough.

Hosea said I was special, but words don’t mean anything without actions to back them up.

And maybe I am special, but it’s not because he said so.

I log out of my email and stand up, gathering the CD and packaging, and Marisa’s printed email. I nod at Pete on the way out, but I stop in the doorway. The email in one hand, Hosea’s CD in the other. I pause for a moment, then release my grip on the disc and listen as it drops into the trash with a resounding thump.

I keep walking and I don’t look back.

I’m lucky to know so many excellent people who helped make this book a book:

Tina Wexler, you are an absolute gem. I’ll never forget the day you pulled my query from the slush pile, and I’m so proud to call you my agent. Thank you for the unwavering enthusiasm, wisdom, humor, and professionalism. I appreciate all that you do.

To my editor extraordinaire, Ari Lewin: Working on this book has been one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. From the beginning, you understood the story I was trying to tell, and I’m so grateful for your fierce commitment to get it right. Thanks for always being an exceptional person and editor; you’ve helped make this lifelong dream truly special.

Thank you to Katherine Perkins for a keen editorial eye, and the rest of the Penguin team for creating a beautiful, tangible thing from a document that once lived on my computer.

Lisa Barley, I value your friendship, patience, and honesty. Eternal thanks for reading the earliest drafts of this story, indulging me in endless conversations about the plot and characters, and never letting me give up. Much love to Lena Anderson for your loyalty, excitement, and nonstop support. I’m indebted to Stephanie D. Brown, Carrie Burns, and Erika Enk Rueter for reading early versions and providing helpful feedback and encouragement. Leila Howland and Vanessa Napolitano, your quick reads and brilliant notes during revisions were essential to the development of this story. Thanks also to Lesley Arimah and Kelly Kamenetzky for listening and rooting for me, always.

Amy Spalding, thank you for a stupendous amount of support and making me laugh when I need it most. Corey Haydu, Kristen Kittscher, and April G. Tucholke, I am so grateful for your emails and friendship; I’ll never understand how you always know the right thing to say, but I do appreciate it. Alison Cherry, thank you for being so kind and faithfully cheering me on to the finish line.

Los Angeles and Chicago friends, thanks for putting up with my incessant babbling and disappearing acts while I was working on this book—and for being my family away from home. I’m incredibly grateful to Debbie Farr and Sonshine Performing Arts Academy for teaching me how to tap, and fostering a love and respect for all disciplines of dance.

To my big brother, Al: I constantly wanted to do what you were doing when we were kids, so I’m really glad voracious reading has always been your thing.

And to my parents, Jerri and Albert, I can’t thank you enough for raising me in a house filled with good books, buying me all those notebooks and pens, and never forcing me outside when I’d rather be in a quiet room, writing. Some of my favorite memories are Saturday mornings spent at the library and bookstore—and also that time you gave me, at my request, nothing but a giant box of books for Christmas. I was seven years old when I told you I wanted to be an author, and you always said I could do it someday if I tried really hard. Thank you for believing in me.