Imaginary Girls(94)

She’d be homesick, she’d have to be. I knew she missed me, but I bet she also missed other things, like dry boys she could keep an eye on, because reservoir boys had to be slippery. And things you could only get up top, like fried foods and red wine, and sunglasses, because it would be too dim down there to need any. I knew she’d miss driving in her car down a long, flat road, the kind she used to speed down with headlights off. I’m sure she’d miss sleeping in a bed with an actual pillow, as algae must get so sticky and clump up your hair. She’d miss things I took for granted: sunshine and rainstorms and horribly catchy pop songs, even if she’d heard them a thousand times before. And stupid things probably, too: like getting an eyelash stuck in her eye, or doing laundry and having to fold it after, or the annoying way nail polish chips and you can’t get it all off unless you buy the special remover. Things like that.

There was so much she couldn’t have down there. She’d want to come back up for good.

It could happen.

All I knew was that she couldn’t be down in Olive this long by choice—they were making her stay, punishment for all the things she did. She got too powerful up here on the surface, she stopped being careful, and the people of Olive just didn’t like that. I knew that if it were up to her, she’d already be up here, with me.

Even if it took her forever to make it to the rocks on shore, I hoped she knew I’d be here when she got out, holding a bag of dry clothes, her blue boots maybe, or her black ones, and glasses, dark-tinted, to keep out the glaring sun. I’d help her get steady on her legs again. I’d walk her back through the trees, if she forgot the way.

Her car would be parked where she always parked it, and I’d open the passenger-side door for her and say, “Back to town, Ruby?” and she’d say, “Where else, Chloe?” And she’d take a tug on my hair and say, “I know you finally got your license and all, but are you gonna let me drive or what?” and I’d smile, because I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, not with Ruby around, and I’d hand over the keys.

That’s what would happen, when she got out.

But the reservoir was quiet and still—no splashing, not again. So I decided to wait on the rock a little longer; it wasn’t that late.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel her playing with my hair the way she used to. Her light touch at my forehead, either her light touch or the wind’s. Her fingers as she did the braids she used to put in my hair when I was a girl, working slowly, methodically, at a rate that might take a hundred nights to finish, more nights than I could guess at counting, more nights than she’d want to say.

I felt so sure of it: her fingers moving lightly through my hair, my eyes closed to the wind, the reservoir at our backs, leaving us be. So sure I’d open my eyes and find my hair in braids, and the strawberry candies all taken, and there on the rock, Ruby, my big sister, saying what should we have for dinner, pita pizzas or mashed potatoes, and what day was it anyway and were there any good movies on TV?

It sounded impossible, something no one would believe. Yet I was so sure that at any moment I’d open my eyes and see her. I’d open my eyes and see.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


My brilliant agent, Michael Bourret, somehow saw the potential in my pages and supported me through every difficult and dramatic moment to reach this point. I was once advised that working with him would be the best thing to happen to my career; time and again, this has been proven true.

My phenomenal editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, pushed me to new heights I’d hardly dared imagine with this manuscript. This novel needed her to edit it. It absolutely would not be what it is without her vision, her deep understanding of its characters, and her belief that its author could actually pull through. I’m in awe of what she can do and beyond lucky for the chance to have her skill and attention shine my way.

Grateful thanks to: Lauri Hornik, Linda McCarthy, Steve Meltzer, Rosanne Lauer, Lisa Yoskowitz, Liza Kaplan, Elena Kalis for the stunning cover image, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Young Readers Group; Lauren Abramo at DGLM; the Writers Room; Think Coffee; the Corporation of Yaddo; the MacDowell Colony; Aimee Bender, and her Tin House workshop the summer of 2008; Sigrid Nunez; Molly O’Neill; Micol Ostow; Mark Rifkin; Courtney Summers; my brother, Joshua Suma; and my Woodstock friends who swam the Ashokan with me, especially Esme Breitenstein and Christine Gable, and in memory of Carlena Hahne, who was lost too soon.

Thanks for encouragement from: Kate Angelella, Jo?lle Anthony, Hilary Bachelder, Jim Berry, Bryan Bliss, Marc Breslav, Cat Clarke, Erin Downing, Annika Barranti Klein, Will Klein, Yojo Shaw, Erin Swan, Christine Lee Zilka.