The Square Root of Summer(77)
And all that time falls through my fingers.
The wrong date on an email and a cat who shouldn’t exist. A time capsule we found in a tree five years ago, and the boy who gave me a summer. A best friend from the fifties and a brother from the seventies. A father who fades in and out and a mother I will never, ever know.
And Grey. Grey, who it still hurts my heart to think about. Grey, who I will always mourn. Grey, who I will always be able to find again.
This is what it means to love someone. This is what it means to grieve someone. It’s a little bit like a black hole.
It’s a little bit like infinity.
Ned is waiting for me when I come down the stairs. He’s leaning against the desk, flipping through a book, his foot tapping to an invisible beat. He looks up and takes a picture as I approach, his face behind the lens all eyeliner and nose. My twisted big brother.
“Yo, Grots. Everybody’s waiting outside,” he says. “You coming?”
“Right behind you,” I tell him.
He bounds ahead of me to the door, cape billowing. On the porch, I stand for a minute, my eyes adjusting to the light. When I can finally see, everyone is piling back into Grey’s car, through the one stupid door that works. Ned, clambering over into the front passenger seat. Sof sliding in behind him, a sequin sparkle, then Thomas. He twists around to wave through the back window. We’ve got one more day.
Papa waits patiently outside the car for me, his Converse as bright blue as the sky.
I’m still standing on the edge of the step, rocking on my toes, holding my breath as I see the future spinning out ahead of me—getting in the car driving to the beach scattering the ashes saying goodbye going home lighting a bonfire writing an essay—when Thomas sticks his head out the window.
“G!” he yells. “Hurry up—you’re missing everything!”
He’s right. I don’t want to wait another second. My heart fills with yellow as I step outside, because it all starts—
Now.
∞
Find a piece of paper. On one side, write down: “For the secret of perpetual motion, please turn over.” Then, on the other side, write down: “For the secret of perpetual motion, please turn over.”
Read what you’ve just written. Follow the instructions. And just keep going.
Acknowledgments
In memory of my grandmother, Eileen Reuter. Above all, this book is a love letter to my family—who will read it and say, “Well, it didn’t happen anything like that.” My parents, Mike Hapgood and Penny Reuter; my sister and brother, Ellie Reuter and Will Hapgood; and all of Rabbit’s friends-and-relations (most especially Martha Samphire).
And a hundred heartfelt thank-yous to:
My thoroughly wonderful agent and friend, Gemma Cooper, at The Bent Agency, who changed my life. It is as simple and as extraordinary as that. Her guidance, insight, and joy turned my writing, and me, inside out. The brilliant writers of Team Cooper. And the exceptional co-agents and scouts across the universe (I’m shooting for a moon edition…) who worked tirelessly to champion this book and only took the piss out of my “internet translation” German a little bit. I am so, so glücklich.
At Roaring Brook Press, my editor, Connie Hsu, who graciously let me bitch about Britishisms and cling to commas while she quietly and cleverly reshaped this book into something bolder and brighter than I dared imagine—thank you. Elizabeth H. Clark for capturing Gottie’s world so perfectly on the US cover, Kristie Radwilowicz for the charming illustrations, and the entire publishing team for saying “Ja!” to an oddball little English novel full of Wellies and vicars and Mr. Whippy.
In the UK, my other editor (like martinis, two is the perfect amount) Rachel Petty wooed me with Judy Blume and wine, and encouraged me to immortalise my skinny-dipping days in print. Rachel Vale for my golden cover, and everyone at Macmillan Children’s Books for their boundless enthusiasm.
The coven! Don’t go into the writing cave without one. Jessica Alcott, who sends the longest emails (seriously, the delete key is, like, a thing?) and makes fun of me just, y’know, constantly. Mhairi McFarlane, who kindly read the first three chapters, didn’t hate them, and quoted Batman when I most needed it. Alwyn Hamilton, side by side in the edits trenches. John Warrender, grudgingly, I guess. Whatever.
For blatant name thievery, Bim Adewunmi, Megumi Yamazaki, and Maya Rae Oppenheimer. For the books, Stacey Croft. A. J. Grainger for being a class act, Keris Stainton for the writing lessons, Genevieve Herr for sending me Gemma’s way, and Sara O’Connor for the novella crash course. For in-the-nick-of-spacetime physics advice, Georgina Hanratty and Dr. Luke Hanratty—all errors very much my own. Everyone at YALC, Team #UKYA, and the book bloggers. And for sitting on top of the manuscript at every opportunity, shout-out to my cat, Stanley.
Finally, I could not have written a word without my friends. I’m forever astonished and grateful that they continue to welcome me back to the pub after I abandon them for months in favor of imaginary worlds. Catherine Hewitt. Jemma Lloyd-Helliker. The 5PA: Rachael Gibson, Isabelle O’Carroll, Laura Silver, and Emily Wright. Video Club: Dot Fallon, Anne Murphy, Maya (again!) and, more than anyone, Elizabeth Bisley—world’s greatest human and navigator.