Infinity

Happy birthday, Puffin!

Did you know that in 1940 the very first Puffin story book (about a man with broomstick arms called Worzel Gummidge) was published?
That’s 70 years ago! Since then the little Puffin logo has become one of the most recognized book brands in the world and
Puffin has established its place in the hearts of millions.

And in 2010 we are celebrating 70 spectacular years of Puffin and its books! Pocket Money Puffins is a brand-new collection
from your favourite authors at a pocket-money price – in a perfect pocket size. We hope you enjoy these exciting stories and
we hope you’ll join us in celebrating the very best books for children. We may be 70 years old (sounds ancient, doesn’t it?)
but Puffin has never been so lively and fun.

There really IS a Puffin book for everyone
– discover yours today.

Books by Sarah Dessen

JUST LISTEN

THE TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER

LOCK AND KEY

THAT SUMMER

ALONG FOR THE RIDE

PUFFIN

PUFFIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

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‘Infinity’ first published in the USA in
SIXTEEN: Stories About That Sweet and Bitter Birthday
by Three Rivers Press (imprint of The Crown Publishing Group) in 2004

Just Listen
first published in the USA by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc. 2006

First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2007

That Summer
first published in the USA by Orchard Books, 1996

First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2009

Published in this edition 2010

Text copyright © Sarah Dessen, 2010

Colour Puffin artwork on cover copyright © Jill McDonald, 1974

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-14-195979-5

Infinity

Extract from
Just Listen

Extract from
That Summer

Lately, I don’t dream about Anthony. I dream about the roundabout.

Now, Mr Haskell, my psychology teacher, would say this had implications. That somehow my fear of the roundabout is linked
to my issues with Anthony, which are both many and complicated. Mr Haskell has a certain way he says things like this, leaning
over with both elbows balanced on his lectern. It’s very unsettling, as if he can see deep into your soul. But the truth is
I was scared of the roundabout before I even met Anthony.

Most towns have those most modern of inventions, traffic lights, to deal with traffic. Not here. Instead, some genius decided
however many years ago to put in instead this big circle with all the main roads feeding into it, then sat back to watch people
crash to their deaths as they attempted to negotiate it.

But I digress.

My first experience with the roundabout was when I was about seven. We’d just moved to town so that my father could finally
finish his dissertation. My mother and I were on our way to the grocery store when we suddenly came up on this big sign that
said
YIELD
with an arrow pointing to the right. Cars were going round a big circle, off which poked several different exits to different
roads. The trick, apparently, was to kind of merge in, follow round until your exit, then merge out. Simple as that.

‘Oh, my God,’ my mother said, poking her glasses
up the bridge of her nose, which she always does when she’s really nervous. ‘What is this?’

The answer came in the form of a loud, impatient beep from behind us. My mother looked anxiously to her left, then tentatively
tapped at the accelerator, sending us inching out into oncoming traffic. Another beep.

‘Mom,’ I said.

‘I’m merging!’ she shrieked, as if this was on the level of splitting atoms and I was distracting her on purpose. And we were
merging, pretty well, slowly easing into traffic. In fact, we were almost relaxed when we had to try and get back out, no
easy trick, as there were many cars merging in. We got stuck on the inside track for two more turns, watching our exit go
by, before my mother panicked and just sort of jerked the wheel, sending us in its general direction. And that was when the
station wagon hit us.

The scene ensued the way you would expect: dents all around, tears (my mother), angry muttering (the
guy who owned the station wagon), plus everyone else driving past rubbernecking and jawing to each other while I sank down
as far as I could in the passenger seat, wishing there was a way to meld permanently with the pleather beneath me. The entire
episode ended with a ticket, our insurance rates rising and my mother swearing to never do the roundabout ever again, which
seemed somewhat overly dramatic, until we realized that she meant it.

What this means, essentially, is that she has spent nine years taking the longest possible route
everywhere
, because the roundabout is the hub of our town. Avoiding it takes work. And maps. And no end of secret shortcuts, long detours
and general embarrassment. Even a trip to the Quik Zip, basically about four miles from our house, requires getting on the
highway, cutting (illegally) through the senior-citizen compound and three left turns against oncoming traffic.

My father calls this ridiculous. He is a roundabout
champ, folding easily in and out, even while chatting on his cell phone or fiddling with the CD player. He is also a mathematician,
something that my mother always brings up whenever the Roundabout Argument commences, as if his proficiency with numbers is
somehow involved in his mastery of the traffic circle. What all this has meant to me is that when it comes to going anywhere
I’m usually hoping it’s my dad who grabs the keys to the sedan off the hook by the door first. Which is going to be a moot
point, now that I’m about to turn sixteen and get my own licence.

My boyfriend, Anthony, is a year older than me. He’s good at the roundabout too, but understands my hesitation. In fact, since
I got my permit, we’ve spent a lot of time going in circles together, practising. We started late at night, when it was pretty
much deserted.

‘Okay, now the first thing you’re gonna do is stop and look to the left here,’ he instructed me one night.
‘There’s someone coming, so unless they merge off before they get here, we’ll wait for them to pass.’

We waited. It was a Cadillac, moving slowly. They had the whole roundabout to themselves.

‘Okay now,’ Anthony said. ‘Just ease out.’

I did. Just as my mother had, all those years ago. But this time there was no one coming; it was dark. No problem. But still
my heart was beating hard, thumping against my chest, even as I picked up speed.

‘See?’ Anthony said, reaching over to squeeze my leg. He left his hand there, warm on my skin, as we eased round the circle.
‘Piece of cake, right?’

‘Right,’ I said. We passed all the exits once, then started through again. Of course this was okay, I thought. Like a merry-go-round,
only faster. But it was a trial run. And trial runs are always easier.

After a few more turns we were starting to get dizzy. Finally Anthony pointed towards the beach route exit, and I took it,
following the bumpy road past subdivisions and marshes before finally hitting the turn-off
to the shore parking lot. I slowed down, remembering the potholes, pulling up into a space right behind the lifeguard stand.
Then I cut the engine.

‘You did good tonight,’ Anthony said.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

And then he leaned over and kissed me. I knew he would. I knew it just like I knew after a few minutes he’d reach up and undo
my shirt, then slide off my bra straps, easing me back against the seat behind me. He’d tell me he loved me, kiss my neck,
run his hand down my back and into the waistband of my jeans, pressing his fingers there. I knew because we’d been practising
this too, all this time, trial run after trial run. Like the roundabout, what came next was obvious. And scary. And, it seemed,
inevitable.

I’d been with Anthony for over six months. We’d met at work: we both had jobs at Jumbo Smoothie. He worked the blenders, which
was an advanced position, while I dumped sliced peaches and yoghurt into cups, prepping. It wasn’t a great job, but we got
to play the radio and eat all the free smoothies we wanted, which was fun for the first week or so.

Anthony was tall, with a bony frame: he had big wrists, wild curly hair and a sloping kind of walk that always made him look
like he was taking his time. When he blended smoothies, he really put his whole body into it, arms shaking, bouncing on the
balls of his feet, like the noise the blender made was music and he just couldn’t help himself from dancing.