Never Eighteen (17 page)

Kaylee finds herself driving past Austin's house on her way home. On the outside, everything appears so still, so quiet. She's sure it's different inside, screaming, crying, anguish. The same anguish she feels coursing through her body straight to her core. She wants to stop, but the pain is still so fresh, not just for her, but for Austin's parents. Time. They need time not to have to be strong, time to grieve with abandon.

Continuing home, she realizes she's ready. She immediately climbs the stairs to her room, sits on the floor, and opens the box.

It's stuffed full of memories. Some items she immediately recognizes, some she's never seen before. On top of all that sits an envelope. She opens it and pulls out a letter. She begins to read.

Dear Kaylee,

If you are reading this letter, that must mean I'm not around anymore. I'm so sorry we didn't have more time together. Nine years just didn't seem like enough, did it? I would have liked to date you, marry you someday, have a family, grow old together. I would have liked to be with you forever, but God had other plans for me. Know that I have loved you always, and will continue to love you even in death.

Not to kill the moment, but I have to get down to business. First things first: my funeral. I've left my plans with my parents, but you have to get them to follow them. They'll undoubtedly try to hold some lame cryfest at some stuffy church I've never stepped foot in. That's not what I want. I want a celebration. I want people talking, joking, and laughing. I don't want anyone mourning me.

I want you to give my eulogy. I know it will be hard, because I'm sure you're hurting right now. I know I would be if the shoe was on the other foot. But no one knows me better than you, Kaylee. I don't care what you say, a little, a lot, crying, smiling, laughing, but I want my memory honored in your words, with your voice.

My next order of business is music. My mom will try to play some depressing religious hymns. Don't let her. No dirges. There's one song you must play. Other than that, play what you want. The CD is in the box on top—it's black with the moon on the cover. Track number four is the one I want you to play. That song means a lot to me. Listen to it. You'll understand.

Please DO NOT wear black. Wear pink or green or purple or any other color of the rainbow. Actually, wear blue. You look
beautiful in blue. It brings out your eyes. But no black. This is not a sad day. I'm no longer sick, no longer in pain. I'm okay now. I died happy—mostly because of you. :)

And for shit's sake, do not let my parents stick me in a box in the ground. Yuck! I don't want any damn worms crawling through me, eating my flesh. Sorry, that's a bit sick, isn't it? I want my body cremated. They can put a place marker wherever they want, but do NOT let them place me in the cold hard earth. Scatter my ashes on Mount Rainier, up by Comet Falls. You'll have to be sneaky about it, because it's frowned upon. I think it might actually be illegal, but that never stopped you before, right? Kidding. Please make this happen. I want to be up there among the trees and flowers, and fresh air, with the water flowing nearby. I want to be a part of that nature I loved, that nature my parents shared with me, and I shared with you.

Now that that's taken care of, back to the box. This box contains items that were important to me, us, our life together. Share them, keep them to yourself, use them as you wish. Many are pictures of our times together, alone, with our friends, at school, during the holidays, on our journeys. There's one of you in there that I LOVE. Jake took it. We're at Owen Beach, your hair is blowing in the wind, and you're looking out over the water. You looked like you were dreaming of some faraway place. I remember wishing I were there with you, inside your
head, seeing what you were seeing. Anyway, you were looking out over the water, and there I am just beyond you, staring, gazing really, taking in the beauty and wonder that is you.

If you had seen that picture, you would have known I loved you. Jake did. He knew right away. That asshole held it over my head forever. Made me lend him money all the time or else he'd show you that picture. What a jerk, huh? His mom gave me the picture, and now I'm giving it to you. It's near the top of the box, so you shouldn't have trouble finding it.

There are a couple books in there, my favorites.
Catcher in the Rye, Fahrenheit 451, To Kill a Mockingbird, Wuthering Heights, Lord of the Flies.
I know you've probably already read them all, but if you happen to read them again, I hope you'll think of me.

I left you all of my indie CDs. My mom will give them to you later. I've placed my favorites in the box. I know you don't like indie now, but I think the more you listen, the more you'll appreciate it. Pay careful attention to the words, the meaning behind them. Try it for me. I mean, you can't live on hip-hop and pop alone. That's just wrong.

My poetry book's also in there. So many of the poems I've written have been inspired by you, or were written for you, so I think it's only right that you should be the one to have it. Share it if you must, but remember how guarded I was about my writ
ing. Many of the words in that book were meant for you. I wouldn't mind if you kept it that way, a secret, close to your heart.

The last item is my beloved Cyber-shot. I've not yet downloaded the pictures or video from our journey together, so they're all still in there. Enjoy. I did. It was a beautiful weekend. I would have never forgotten it, and I thank you for that.

All of these items that once belonged to me now belong to you, along with your memories. I don't want you to mourn me, but I wouldn't mind if you thought about me from time to time maybe next time you eat at Frisko, or maybe while you're just driving aimlessly, letting Scarlet guide your way (you should really change her name to Apple by the way), or when you look up toward the night sky. Move on, live your life, Kaylee, but please, never forget me.

Eternally yours, Austin

Kaylee finds the photo, the one Austin spoke of, quickly. He was right; it was obvious. She should have known, even before he told her. She'd felt his gaze on her more than once. She figured she was just being delusional. Maybe she's the one who should have spoken up sooner.

She leafs through the rest of the photos, laughing and crying as she consumes memory after memory made timeless and everlasting through the lens of Austin's camera.

She pulls out the books, one by one, studying their covers. She's read them all but knows she will read them again, because they were his. She tries to decide which she should read first, and settles on the Bronte, the only romance in the bunch.

It's time to look through the CDs. She immediately opens the one he described in his letter. She puts it in her CD player, presses Play, and almost immediately realizes why Austin loved this music so much. So much feeling, so much meaning, it cries out for attention. She'll never listen to music the same way again.

His poetry book, the little spiral notebook with all his inner thoughts and feelings, comes out next. She opens to a random page and begins to read the poem within its lines.

"Stolen Heart"

She shimmers, not unlike the stars.
Gleaming, glimmering, glowing.

She sways, like the ocean waves.
Surging, rushing, rolling.

She's bright, she is the sun.
Blinding, dazzling, stunning.

She floats, quite like the birds.
Climbing, fluttering, soaring.

She's stolen my heart, with her it stays.
Clasping, keeping, owning.

My love is hers and hers is mine.
Falling, twisting, holding.

Crying, she closes the book, holds it to her heart, then lays it down gently on the floor.

Last, she picks up the camera, passes it from hand to hand, turns it, and examines it as if it's a foreign object. Leaning back on her bed, she pushes the power button and scans through the pictures one by one, slowly as to not miss a single detail. She plays each video, over and over, just to see Austin alive and animated again, to hear his voice. She puts everything back into the box, goes to her desk, sits in front of her computer, and sets the box down next to her. Placing her fingers on the keyboard, she begins typing the eulogy of Austin James Parker.

So many people to thank—where does one start? I suppose it's only right to thank my mother-in-law, Judy, first. It was after her death that I sat down and wrote my first novel. Through her death I also gained the experience needed to write this story. I've missed her these last nine years.

Next, I need to thank all of those who read the novel and gave me feedback, whether it was blanket ideas or full-on line edits. That would be Jarucia Jaycox Nirula, Debbie Mercer (and Mike Sullivan for bringing us together), Michelle Humphrey, Jay Simons, Chris Brown, Kristen Kendle, Kathy Vinyard, and my niece Lily Galagan, who gave me that teen perspective I so desperately needed.

There are three special friends I have to thank: Gae Polisner, who also read
Never Eighteen
in its early stages and gave me priceless advice; Jeff Fielder, who gave me the name of my agent, Irene Kraas, when I was just about to give up; and Tracy Walshaw, who motivates and inspires. The friendship these three have given me these last few years has been invaluable, and there are many days I'm not sure I would have made it through without them. They make me laugh, think, and work to be a better writer and a better person.

I need to thank my amazing agent, Irene Kraas, who had faith in a little teen novel, at that time titled "Mending Fences." She took me in when I was about to give up, and remarkably sold my novel in two weeks.

To Julia Richardson, my wonderful editor who puts up with my endless questions, and has made revisions and copyedits fairly pain-free.

To my family, my parents, Guelda and John Messina, who never lost faith in me through the years, though I know I must have caused them some grief. To my brother and fellow writer, John Messina, who has read my stuff and given me positive reinforcement. To my sister Maribeth, who keeps me sane at my day job. To my sister Dana, who didn't kill me when I was little (and helped with my first-pass pages).

To Rusty Bostic, without whom this story would never have been written. He has been my idea man and best friend since the onset of my writing career.

Last, I thank my daughters, Mary and Rachel, for being my motivation to turn this hobby into a profession, and inspiring me every day (even the days when they drive me nuts).

Music often inspires my writing. You may have noticed songs and music mentioned throughout
Never Eighteen.
I wanted to use lyrics from some of the songs below, but because permissions are hard to get, I could not. Other songs on the list just inspire the spirit of the book. Here's the
Never Eighteen
playlist:

"I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie
"New Slang" by the Shins
"Bulls on Parade" by Rage Against the Machine
"Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Cutie
"All Possibilities" by Badly Drawn Boy
"Where the Moss Slowly Grows" by Tiger Army
"Sometime Around Midnight" by the Airborne Toxic Event
"Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol
"Fix You" by Coldplay
"Brick" by Ben Folds Five
"Red Right Ankle" by the Decemberists
"How We Operate" by Gomez
"Love's Labour is Lost" by the Less Deceived
"Weighty Ghost" by Wintersleep

MEGAN BOSTIC has lived in Tacoma, Washington, pretty much her entire life. Despite the rain and gray (she craves sunshine), she still lives there with her family.
Never Eighteen
is her debut novel. Visit Megan at
www.meganbosticbooks.com
.