The Homecoming

~1~

“…that’s…it.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. I had a stinging in my eyes, and my throat felt raw from all the talking. I wondered what time it was. Five? Six? During my story, I somehow had completely lost track of time. I took a swig from the still almost full bottle of water and took in the scenery around me.
The sun over Central Park had started to set a while ago, painting the autumn leaves on the trees around us in bright colors. Overhead, crows flew all over the sky, on their way to the south to find a winter habitat. Their screams sounded shrill in my ears after the silence that had greeted me from the girl that sat next to me on the now cool grass. She had pulled her knees up to her chest with her arms crossed above them and her chin resting on her forearms, which made her look a lot younger than twenty-six.
“Uhm…” I started, turning to her and realizing for the first time that there was a sparkle in her eyes that did not seem to originate from the stars overhead.
“Are you okay?”
Despite the fact that I was way out of my High School years, even with twenty-seven I seemed incapable of acting accordingly to men-women-relationship-etiquette. I blamed Ben, my best friend.
For a moment, Riley just stared at me, her blue eyes slightly watering, but her mind obviously somewhere else. Then something snapped inside of her. She blinked and put on the kind of smile that got me every time I saw it.
“Of course I am, dumbo,” she said, punching my shoulder. I’d probably have a bruise there later, I gathered.
“Oh, well,” I said, flabbergasted. “I just thought…you know. You’ve let me talk for the past…what? Three hours? And now that I’m done, you’re still quiet. It kinda freaked me out.”
She laughed, throwing her head back. It was a full-on laugh, with her mouth wide open and the corners of it spread widely. Her long, dark blond her fell down on her back, swaying in the small breeze.
“You know I love to freak you out, Q,” Riley replied, and the mention of my old nickname stung for no apparent reason. Or maybe there was a reason. Only one girl had ever called me that nickname. And I hadn’t seen her for over eight years.
“Uhm…alright.”
Another one of her contagious laughs.
“Okay, I’ll stop teasing you now. It has gotten pretty late and I should head home soon anyways,” she said, looking straight at me, and this time, her entire attention was with me, with this time and this place right in this second. She unfolded her arms and spread out her legs so that our feet touched. Then she put a hand on my thigh.
“First of all, thanks for sharing that story with me. I get that it wasn’t easy remembering everything, or even thinking about it, and I feel honored you did it anyways, despite how hard it must’ve been for you.”
I stared at her, only one thought in my head. How easy it had been remembering everything I had just told her about my childhood in Florida, and especially, my senior year at High School. Some things you never forget. Some people you never forget, no matter how hard you try.
Like Margo Roth Spiegelman.
It had been nine years since that fatal night that changed my entire life forever. The night that she had pulled me into her mystery world in a Ninja suit and a crazy ride filled with revenge plans. The night that she disappeared and my journey to find her and bring her back into my life begun. I had found her, obviously, and with it, I had collected memories that would stay with me for the rest of my life – life-changing ones (you can never have enough bottles of beer in a fridge in the back of your car on a road trip for pee-emergencies) and useful ones (never go on a long road trip that includes a tight time-frame without a friend who’s able to plan even the tiniest stop on said trip – it’s a life saver to know how fast you have to rush through a gas station in search for cereal bars and fizzy drinks to keep you awake).
But despite all my hopes and wishes, I had come back empty-handed. Once me and my friends Ben, Radar and Lacey had found Margo at her hide-out near Agloe, New York, I had had to realize that the girl I had been secretly chasing since I first laid eyes on her nine years before wasn’t who I thought she was. And that my view of how my life was supposed to play out – with her in it – wasn’t even close to becoming real at any point. That day, I had said goodbye to the girl who danced in my dreams for as long as I could think, letting her go for good. With so many plans to stay in touch, no matter where life would lead her.
Well, some plans just don’t work out, I guess.
Riley’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “And second…well…how do I put this…” She crossed her legs at the ankles, staring up at the now almost dark sky with her arms resting on the grass behind her. A sight left her lips before she finally said something that would once again turn my world upside down.
“Quentin, that story is probably the saddest and most depressing one I’ve ever heard.”
For a moment, I was somewhere else. It was as if I was floating above everything, the colorful leaves and the green grass of Central Park below me looking as if Picasso himself had painted them. Nothing seemed real while I tried to process what Riley had just said. Then something inside of me snapped and…I started laughing. Not a small laugh, like the one I’d give Ben back in High School whenever he referred to one of our female classmates as “Honeybunnys” (which, honestly, had stopped being funny the tenth time in a row). It was that kind of laugh that starts in the deepest pit of your stomach, crawling up and tickling at your insides with all the power it can provide. I threw my face up into the star-lit sky and laughed as if the beautiful girl next to me had just told the funniest joke in the world. I laughed as if I had never been hurt.
“Okay, what exactly is so funny?”
I tried to pull myself together, but failed miserably. My laughter filled Central Park, and a few late-night joggers passed by, staring at me as if I was a lunatic. Maybe I was. I couldn’t help it.
“I…I’m sorry, Riley…” I started, trying to pull myself together before I choked. Tears started streaming down my face. I took a deep breath, and it almost worked – until, for no apparent reason, a picture of Ben in my car popped up in front of my eyes, trying to pee into an emptied bottle of beer through a tight bottleneck, and I gave up. I fell back on the grass and grabbed my chest to keep me from actually choking to death from uncontrollable laughter.
“Q? Q, could you please stop that and explain to me what the hell is wrong with you? You’re freaking me out,” Riley’s shaking voice cut through my laughter. The urgency in it somewhat finally made me stop. I slowly sat up, wiping the tears out of my eyes and suppressing the giggles that were still stuck in my throat. No one knows how hard it is to stop giggling or grinning even if there’s nothing funny to laugh about at all.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, slowly regaining composure. I took a deep breath and the evening air that filled my lungs finally killed all the ambitions of another laughing fit that I might have left.
“It’s just…what you said. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I told you a story about a girl that was lost and found again by her friends when the entire world already gave up on her, filled with a Ninja night of sweet revenge, pee-emergencies in a minivan and seniors being totally naked under their robes. If anything, it’s a story about unconditional friendship and wonderful memories, nothing more.”
Truth is, I really believed what I said. In that moment, it couldn’t have been clearer to me. What my friends and I had experienced all these years ago where just that – memories. We all had moved on, grown up and learned to live with the mistakes and lessons life had thrown at us.
Or so I had thought.
Riley stared at me with those serious, blue eyes, and as she spoke again, I could hear the certainty in her voice, mixed with something I couldn’t exactly place. Worry maybe?
“Memories?” she asked, suppressing a snort. “Quentin, seriously. Your story was about a young boy who fell in love with a girl the second she moved in next door to him. They grow up living close to each other, and all the while, said boy secretly slobbers over the girl without ever telling her. Then one day, she barges into his life through his window, takes him on a crazy ride through their neighborhood, a business building and even Sea Life – then, the next day, she disappears without a word. And after a wild goose chase, trying to figure out clues and traces she left, the boy and his friends finally find the girl. And all he gets for his trouble – not to mention missing out on his own graduation! – is a short kiss, a farewell and the promise to somehow stay in touch? How is that not depressing?”
I stared at her, aghast. For a moment, my brain didn’t seem to be able to make the connection between the words I’ve just heard and the sound that was supposed to have reached my ears. It was like I was caught under a dive bell that made everything around me sound muffled. Then I finally understood. And I was even more taken aback, as I had never myself thought that way about my story with Margo.
Even after all those years, she still remained a mystery to me. It was true, I never got as close to her as I had always wished to be when I was a teenager. And as I was reminiscing about it, it came to me that she even teased me about my feelings more than once. It weren’t more than tiny things, like a flicker of her eyes in my direction, her throwing back her hair in the hallways of school, her barging into my bedroom at night, jumping onto my bed while I was half-naked under it, her face as close to me as she had always been in my dreams…and then came something else into my head.
The way Margo had looked at me the day I had finally found her after weeks of searching and following traces. The blank, angry stare in her eyes. The seemingly long laid-out explanation for her flight. The refuse to come back home with me. And suddenly, after all those years, I began to see her with different eyes, and from the way Riley looked at me, sympathetically, I knew she knew she had gotten through to me.
Margo hadn’t been the girl that had danced in my dreams. Well, technically, she had been, and more than one crumpled sheet in my bed back then proved that, but Riley was right. The story I had shared was depressing. For years, I had been chasing nothing but a dream, no matter the costs, and I sugarcoated it with a story about a road trip and pee-in-a-bottle jokes.
I suddenly felt extraordinarily tired.
“Look, Quentin,” Riley said and pushed herself closer towards me. I scented the perfume on her skin, a mixture of orange and vanilla that waved in the slight breeze. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or offend you. God knows I’ve been in some very weird relationships myself.” I didn’t correct her that Margo and I had never actually been in a relationship of that kind; I felt like it was obsolete.
“It’s just….god. You’re such a good guy, you know. You have a steady job, a nice flat, you’re good-looking, quite popular around your colleagues and friends. And still, I can see the flicker of a love long hoped for and yet, lost, in your eyes. I can see something that just doesn’t let you give up on her. I always assumed it was about a girl, but this…” She stopped at looked at me with a shrug. “How long since you’ve last seen her?”
That question, I realized, I could answer without any hesitation. “Eight years,” I said.
“Eight years?” Riley asked, her eyes widening. “Wait, so…the story you just told me happened, what? Nine years ago? Does that mean you only stayed in touch for one more year? Despite your promise to each other?”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Life got in the way, I guess. She went off to Los Angeles and started at some kind of marketing firm. I went back to school, had my graduation after all, and we met twice a few months after she had settled. Then I got accepted into Emerson, started my degree and got a job with the Times. And somewhere along the way…we grew apart.”
“You grew apart? You and the girl you have loved and dreamed about since the second your eyes fell on her when you were just eight years old?”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it, really. I thought about what Ben would’ve said, would’ve he been here right in this second. “That honeybunny is sharp as a butcher’s knife, dude. Keep her.” And I knew how my words must have sounded, considering the story that I had been rambling about for the past few hours. But somewhere along the way, somewhere between the part where I had told Riley about the moment I had found Margo again and the one where she stated how depressing our history really was, I had finally come to peace with myself and whatever Margo and I had shared.
Which was – basically, now that it was clear for me to see, – nothing.
“Yes, very positively so.” And as if to do my words justice, I leaned forward, cupped Riley’s face in both of my hands and kissed her.
I hadn’t even known myself that I’d do it before I did. But in that moment, everything around us seemed to disappear in the dark night sky. The cold breeze embracing us felt like a warm summer wind, and in my head, I heard birds sing a song that I had long forgotten about. A song about love and the beauty of life.
I pulled away and looked at the girl across from me expectantly. We had never kissed before; in fact, I hadn’t even known I liked her in that kind of way, despite the obvious attraction she had developed towards me ever since we had started working together, with every lunch we shared and every joke I had told over the past couple of months. Apparently, she thought I was hilarious, and the teenage boy still inside of me thought it was out of pity. But that kiss…god. Even the best actress couldn’t fake that kind of response to an unexpected kiss under a starlit sky.
“Wow.”
“Wow indeed.” I grinned at her.
“I..uhm…” Under the light of the stars, I saw her blushing a bit, and it was like I could almost see the heart under her chest beating faster. I grinned even more. I felt good. Perfect.
Like home.
“It’s been getting late, and I…I should really head home. My best friend will kill me if I miss out on dinner again. We’ve been trying to find a date to have our girl’s night for ages. If I skip it again, I probably have to sleep under a bridge tomorrow.” She was clearly blabbering now, confused, and it was such a familiar behavior for me that I almost laughed out loud.
From the moment I had met Riley a few months ago when my boss had introduced us to each other, she had been a tough one. She never took “No” for an answer if she really wanted something, she knew exactly how to get her way with people around her, and she was ambitious. Fierce. But the girl in front of me who now brushed off the grass from the bottoms of her dark blue jeans was the exact opposite. To me, it was like seeing myself squirming away from a definitely embarrassing situation, like being kissed by a very attractive girl.
Not that that had happened often until my early twenties, though. Quentin Jacobsen had never been a heart breaker. Nope, sir.
“Yeah, I have to head off soon, too,” I replied, getting up myself. As soon as I stood, I almost felt myself collapse; my legs felt as if they were made of jelly from the hours of sitting cross-legged. I steadied myself, and when I looked up, I saw Riley grin at me.
“Easy there, mister. I know my kisses are good, but you have no idea what else is in stock.” And then she actually winked at me. And for the first time I felt like I could fall in love with her.
“Ha-ha, good one,” I said, laughing. “But seriously, I need to go. There’s a wedding I have to attend tomorrow, and I know that my best friend will kill me if I don’t make it to Florida in time. And then he’ll send the wrath of dozens of Black Santas upon me.”
Riley looked at me with a shy smile on her lips, clearly puzzled at that expression, thinking I had made some weird kind of joke. I didn’t offer her any more explanation, as it would’ve probably taken another three hours to explain why one of my friends’ parents had the world’s largest collection of Black Santas all over their place – and that they’re black, themselves.
I slightly punched her in the shoulder (the insecure teenage boy suddenly back, not knowing how to act around this beautiful, blue eyed girl now that he had so bravely kissed a few minutes before) and gave her my widest smile.
“When will you be back, Quentin?” she shouted after me as I headed down Central Park, and I turned around.
“One week. If I decide on another road trip with enough empty bottles to pee in, then probably just six days.” That made her laugh out loud, and I felt like the funniest person in the world. Although I’d have to do a lot of explaining to do towards Ben if he ever found out I told a girl – a honeybunny, – about his peeing incident.
“Alright, Mr. Roadtrip,” Riley said, still laughing. “Call me as soon as you’re back. Then we can take off where we just left.”
From afar, I grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. “You bet on it!”
Had I known how the upcoming events would turn my world upside down, I would’ve probably turned around and ran out of Central Park, out of New York and maybe even the US as fast as I could without ever looking back.

 

~2~

When I arrived at the house where I had grown up, lived, loved and laughed, I couldn’t help but smile. The well-kept, green lawn right in front of me with a lawnmower in the corner (my father must’ve been cutting the grass early this morning before the sun and heat would hit us), the flowers just under the living room windows that my mother without a doubt still looked out for in an impeccable manner, the van in front of our garage that reminded me of the legendary road trip on my graduation day. Thinking of it again, my mouth spread out into a wide grin, and I shook my head, laughing. Then the smile faded when my eyes wandered up to my old bedroom window.
It still looked exactly as on the day I had left it, although I knew my mother had turned it into a study, or better, a session room (she had started doing home sessions with her psychology students over the past few years, and apparently, my old bedroom with all the years of teenage sweat that had seeped into the walls was perfect for that. Not that we didn’t have enough other rooms for her purpose; but I guess that way it was easier to let her psychologically and mentally perfect son leave the house to start his own life, far away in Boston – talking about the psyche of therapists, huh?), but when I looked up to it, all I could think about was that one night.
The night of the dead fish, the naked Quarterback, Sea Life and the Paper Towns. For a moment, I felt way older than twenty-seven, and my heart grew heavy with all the memories that seem to be fading when you leave your teenage years and enter the crazy world of being a grown-up. Then a picture of Riley popped into my head, the girl that somehow liked me (a lot, hooray!) and who I could picture spending a lot of time with – months, even years…hell, maybe we would even be ending up pushing each other’s wheelchair when we were old and grey and the pension from both our journalist jobs was enough to settle down in a nice suburban place like the one I was just standing in.
The future was scary, but it was also worth keep going for.
A squeak pulled me out of my thoughts, and with a grin, I turned my attention to the front door, where my mother stood, her hands clasped in front of her chest, in a long yellow summer dress, her hair pulled up into an updo that I had never seen her wear before. My mother wasn’t someone who gave a lot of thought as to what to wear, what others thought of her; as a therapist, she had analyzed enough people in her life to know that when someone spruced themselves up, it was probably because they didn’t get too much attention as a child (it’s a cliché, but I swear, it was one of life’s lessons that you learned when growing up a Jacobsen). Next to her, my father stood, one hand on the small of my mother’s back, the other hand waving towards me. He looked sharp in his dark suit, way younger than he actually was. They say that life takes its toll, but if that was true, then my father had somehow found a way to outwit it. The smile on his lips reached the corners of his eyes, were small wrinkles built, and for the first time since I had stepped out of the airport, I really felt home again. Excitement to see my old friends later rushed through me.
“Quentin, honey!” My mother came rushing down the front porch, and when she reached me, she opened her arms and hugged me tight, the scent of her perfume finding its way into my nose. It was a blossom scent that somehow reminded me of Riley again, and I felt a rush of butterflies in my stomach.
“How was the flight? How’s New York? How handsome you look in that suit! Christopher, doesn’t he look like a successful young man in the prime of his life?”
“I’m great, thanks mom,” I said, hugging her back. “New York’s…well, cold and windy at that time of year, I guess, but give me a hot and sticky Orlando and I am as happy as one can get,” I continued, which made her laugh out loud. Whenever I came back home (which had been very rare recently, as my job at the Times took up a lot more time than when I was just an intern), my mother asked the same question, and for years, I had given her the same answer. It was our little inside joke.
“Connie, you should really let go of the boy. He’s one of the best men, you better not get his suit all wrinkled up before the ceremony,” I heard my father say as he came down the steps and joined us in the driveway. He smiled proudly as he pulled me into a short embrace himself and patted me on the back. That was as far as he’d ever go into showing emotions; if my mother was the therapist in our family who would always provide you with enough lessons and wise comments about the human psyche, my father was the one who took those lessons and implemented them into his actions (or lack thereof, in that case). They were weird at times, but I was glad they weren’t even half as weird as other people’s parents. At least they had never tried to talk to me through a sock with buttons as eyes and a squeaky voice. That had to count as something.
“Ready for your big day, buddy?”
“Dad, it’s not my wedding, you know? I’m just his best man, how hard can that be?” I replied, laughing. Though on the inside, I wasn’t even half as calm as I pretended to be. It had been a few years since I had seen Radar, and although we had stayed in touch and talked almost every week, it was different to see him again after everything that we had been through nine years back. And over all, this was his wedding day, the day he married his High School sweetheart, Angela. And he had chosen me and Ben to be his best men. It was a huge honor, and it made me nervous, and I wished I didn’t screw things up with the rings that I carried in the pocket of my suit.
“You’re right, darling,” my mother barged in, straightening my jacket. “But who knows? Marcus’ wedding day could be the day that you meet someone, too.” She winked at me, and I felt myself blushing slightly. My mother had never pushed me into dating girls when I was a teenager; she firmly believed that everything went at its own pace and that when the time was right, I would find someone and settle down the way she and my father had. But underneath it all, I knew she secretly hoped I would finally stop my bachelor life, though she would’ve never said anything. I smiled.
“Mom, actually, there’s…” I began, surprising myself by wanting to tell her about Riley, but before I could continue, my father looked at his watch and said: “We should get going, before the traffic’s getting to bad. The best man surely shouldn’t be the last one to arrive.”
And with that, we set off in the car that I had rented at the airport, me behind the wheel and my parents in the back, holding hands as if they were on the way to their own wedding. It pleased me to see how happy they still were after all these years, and once again, I thought of Riley and was surprised that I could easily picture her and me in a back of a car ourselves, me in a dark suit like the one I was wearing now, and her right next to me, her face hidden behind a veil that was part of a beautiful white wedding dress. It was ridiculous, I know; I didn’t even know her that long, and there had only been that one kiss in Central Park just before I had left for Florida, but in my heart I felt that there was something special between us. It felt absolutely right.
I couldn’t wait to tell my parents about the girl I was beginning to fall in love with.
As soon as we arrived at the wedding location and I stepped out of the car, squinting into the bright Orlando sunshine towards the rows and rows of chairs behind white decorated table that served as a small altar for the priest and the groom and bride and I caught sight of Radar and Ben talking to each other in the back row, Ben throwing his head back, laughing, I knew that all my nervousness about this day had been ridiculous and unnecessary. A few feet away from me, my two best friends stood, looking as if the past nine years hadn’t aged them for even a second.
Radar looked sharp in his black suit with a small bow tie and a red cummerbund, his curly black hair cropped close to his head, his hands inside the pockets of his trousers. He was talking vividly, but even from the distance, I could see that it was just a show; he was dead nervous himself. I almost laughed. The Radar I knew had always been the most contained and self-disciplined person one could ever come across. Not even mocking posts on his own website, Omnictionary, made by anyone who at the time liked to make fun of him could discompose him. Maybe growing up with hundreds of different kinds of Black Santas in his house prepared him for the hard life of a teenager.
Next to him, Ben looked no older than he had been when I had witnessed him pee into a bottleneck nine years ago. The boyish smile was the same, and even his blond hair looked as if he still went to the same hairdresser that he had had when we had been kids. He gestured around wildly, and I could almost hear him in my head, probably telling Radar of a “honeybunny” he was dating right now, talking about the nice curve of her butt and the way her hips swayed when she walked, just to tease him. Seeing him in the same suit that I was wearing myself suddenly made my heart ache a bit; despite how young he looked, in that moment, I felt that we had all grown-up and that past times were now only memories shared in the spur of a moment.
As if they had heard my thoughts, both of them suddenly turned their heads in my direction, and the massive grin that suddenly appeared on Ben’s face and the smirk on Radar’s lips pulled me in.
“Bro!” Ben shouted, coming down the aisle to where I was still standing next to the rental car. My parents had somehow disappeared without me noticing and were now talking to Radar’s parents down at the buffet. I put on the biggest grin myself and pulled both Radar and Ben into a brotherly embrace, and it all felt like we had never been apart. When we let go, I saw Radar step from one foot to another, hands back in his pockets.
“Please tell me you have the rings,” he said, his voice shaking slightly, and thinking again how composed he normally was, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. “Angela’s brother is going insane that I gave them to someone living thousand miles away instead of him.”
I put on an innocent face. “Rings? What rings?” I saw all the color drain from Radar’s face for a second, his jaw dropping and sweat breaking out on his forehead. I looked over at Ben, who could barely stop himself from giggling, and burst out into laughter myself. “Calm down, dude, I have them right here.” And with that, I pulled the little blue box with the wedding rings out of my pocket.
Radar stared at me, aghast, then slapped me hard on my arm. “Asshole! I already thought I had to suddenly leave and find some random girl willing to marry me just to make good use of this suit after all.” But he laughed, and I knew I had taken away some of his tension.
“Speaking of which,” Ben said, bumping his fist into my shoulder. “Tell me you brought some honeybunny with you.” He looked around, then into the car, obviously waiting for a beautiful girl with the spirit of New York making her big entrance by stepping out of the vehicle behind me.
“Sorry, buddy, I’m afraid you and me will have to make out after the ceremony behind the barn.”
“Ha-ha,” Ben replied, rolling his eyes. “You know I love you, darling, but I’m afraid I’m still not ready to come out in public. Especially not on someone’s wedding day. We’d steal all the attention, you know.”
We all burst out into laughter, and it suddenly felt like old times, as if all the time away at colleges and our jobs didn’t happen.
“No, seriously, dude, don’t tell me that New York doesn’t provide its residents with loads of beautiful honeybunnies.” He looked at me in such a serious way that I couldn’t help but give in.
“Well,” I began, feeling those butterflies in my stomach again. “Actually, there is someone. Her name’s Riley.”
Radar and Ben both looked at each other, then stared at me for a moment. Then both of them patted my back.
“Ha, I knew it!” Ben shouted out, pushing his fist into the bright, blue sky. “I told you, man, he’d get over Margo as soon as he’s out in the real world! There’s just too many hot ladies out there who are in desperate need of the power of Q’s balls!” With that, he reached out to Radar and held open his hand. “You owe me ten bucks.”
I looked at my best friends, taken aback. I hadn’t expected to hear that name out of one of their mouths, although I gathered that her name had probably been dropped between them more than once over the past couple of years, considering that both of them had stayed close to their hometown, Radar even only a few miles down from his parents’ house when he went to college. Especially because ever since I had gone off to Emerson, we hadn’t even spoken of her personally. There had been mentions of the legendary road trip, the madness at each gas station when we stocked up on food and drinks, and of course, our old enemy, Chuck Parsons, passing us in the school hallways without eyebrows for weeks. But now, thinking about it, it felt like both Radar and Ben had purposely avoided mentioning Margo’s name in conversations with me, as if there had been an unspoken promise to not bring up the subject of the girl that had broken my heart when I was seventeen. It didn’t surprise me as much as one would think, and despite a small lump in my heart that made me realize that even years after school was over, my two best friends had cared so much for me that they had felt the need to protect me from everything that Margo reminded me of (especially Ben, who had always been someone who seemed to care more about when he’d find the next girl that would get him laid than about other people’s personal problems), I felt absolutely content and happy with myself. As I had told Riley just the day before, Margo’s and my lives had turned into a different direction, and we both had moved on. And for my part, my life was perfect the way it was.
“I can’t believe you two took bets on my broken heart,” I replied flatly. “That’s really sad, you know.”
Ben stared at me, then turned his attention to the floor. More than ever, he looked like the boy I had known in High School.
“I’m sorry, bro, seriously,” he stuttered, obviously trying to explain himself. “We just thought that…”
“No, no,” I interrupted him, grabbing his right shoulder, pulling him up and staring straight into his eyes. “It’s really sad that you only bet ten bucks. You could have become a rich man, bro.” Ben looked up, into my serious eyes, and I couldn’t hold it any longer. A loud laugh escaped my throat and shook my entire body; I had to grab the roof of the car behind me to steady myself.
For a moment, there was silence from my best friend, but then both he and Radar joined in and our laughter filled the blue sky above us. Birds flew over our heads, white pigeons, I noticed, the air smelled of the beginning of fall and friendships never lost and the bright future ahead of us.
Radar’s father came over and told us that the ceremony was about to start. We slowly managed to contain our laughter, and I was glad that at least for a bit, I had made him forget about his nervousness that in a few minutes, he would be going to get married to his High School sweetheart. We crossed the lawn towards the small altar, and Ben poked me into the side with his elbow.
“I want to hear every single detail about that New York honeybunny when this is done, Bro. EVERY. SINGLE. DIRTY. DETAIL.”
I laughed, feeling home more than ever. Life was wonderful.

~3~

The wedding ceremony had been absolutely perfect, and it must’ve been exactly what Radar and Angela had hoped for. The bride looked stunning in her long white dress with tiny, sparkling red diamonds around the chest piece that matched Radar’s cummerbund. When they both said their vows and breathed their “I Do” and at last kissed for the first time as husband and wife, even the last row was up on their feet, cheering and clapping, slapping the groom on the back, congratulating both of them and wishing them the best for their future together. I felt a pang of sadness inside of me as I saw the color in both of their cheeks, the big smiles and the way the held hands; one of my best friends that I knew since kindergarten was now officially a grown man, and it wouldn’t be long before their family would grow. Maybe the times we talked and saw each other would become longer, the subjects we talked about changed more and more to family stuff, and when the time came, would fade out completely. You never know, do you?
But generally, when I looked at them, hugged both of them and told Angela how sorry she would be once she realized she was now stuck with Radar and would soon share their home with dozen of creepy Black Santas for the rest of her life, invading even their future baby’s cot and the mobile above it (which made her giggle so hard that tears started running down her cheeks so that she screamed for the girl responsible for her make-up to renew it), I was beyond happy for them. They had found something that everybody reached for in their life, and once again, my thoughts wandered back to New York, and I wondered what Riley was doing right now. I wondered if she also had thought about us the way I had done just a few hours before. Or if she still thought about the story I had told her, fearing that despite my assertion being back home with my old school friends, with all the people of my past, Margo would pop back into my mind and invade it once again, throwing all the plans the future held in stock for me and Riley into disarray.
I shook my head. Riley wasn’t that kind of girl, I was sure of that. But I decided it couldn’t hurt to give her a call later, when the excitement and celebration had ebbed away a bit.
I walked away from the hustle and bustle and found myself slowly walking up a small hill that overlooked the party company to my feet. The sun had started to set and from the distance, it’s orange glow gave the scene underneath a romantic, silent atmosphere. I heard laughter coming up to me, I saw Ben dancing some weird kind of dance, everyone around him laughing and being infected by his crazy mood and beginning to dance themselves. Radar and Angela sat in the middle of their long table, Radar having his arm round his wife’s shoulders, a satisfied smile on his lips. The nervousness had fallen off him the moment he had seen her coming up the aisle to him, and he now seemed more relaxed than ever. I leaned forward on the fence that cut off part of the hill and stared at the happiness down there, smelled the scent of flowers and the salty air from the sea close by and closed my eyes for a moment, taking all of it in.
When I opened them again, I saw my parents coming toward me. They held hands, and as they reached me, my mother gave me a quick hug. I noticed that her eyes were glistening in the darkening sky.
“Hey darling,” she said, squeezing my hand. “What a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it? It reminded me of the one we had back then.” She looked up at my father and smiled. “The seashore, the bright sun that almost burnt you in your suit…” My father laughed and nodded. “…and that gorgeous little beach house Sandra and Scott had prepared for us and where we disappeared after all the excitement was over and…”
“Urgh, mom,” I interrupted. “Gross.” Both my parents laughed and my father gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“One day, you’ll be the one telling your kids all the vivid details of your wedding night, son,” he said, grinning. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really.”
“Dad, please. I’m trying very hard to not feel sick by having to look at my best friend and his wife slobbering each other the entire time like they’re grown together already.” But I was laughing myself. Looking at Radar and Angela was like looking into a mirror that showed my future, and the thought of experiencing what they had just experienced with a girl myself – maybe even Riley one day, – made me feel consonant with myself.
“What’s with the grinning, son?” I heard my dad and realized I had put on a foolish grin. I shook my head. The urge to call Riley was stronger than ever.
“Nothing,” I replied, smiling. “I just thought I better make a call to someone I promised to talk to before it’s getting too late.” That was a small lie, but knowing my parents, I knew they wouldn’t push it.
“Well,” my mother said, giving me another squeeze. “Then we better leave you to it, right, Christopher?” My father nodded. “Just don’t make it too long. You’re still one of the best men and the party down there looks like it’s waiting for you.”
I assured her that I would it make it a quick call and be right down. My mother kissed me on the cheek and they walked down side by side, looking like newlyweds themselves. I smiled.
I heard a sound behind me and turned around. The trees behind me swayed slightly in the wind, and the thick branch work of several bushes rustled along. But there was nobody to see. I shook my head and pulled out my phone. I thumbed through my contacts and when I reached Riley’s name, my heart started thumping. I realized it was probably the two glasses of champagne that made me feel jumpy right now, but I was determined to call her and tell her I couldn’t wait to pick up on where we had left off yesterday.
Before I could put my thumb down on her name to start the call, I heard another sound behind me, closer this time. I turned around again, brows furrowed. But still there was no other soul on the hill than me. Everybody was down there, having fun and enjoying the time of their lives. While I stood here and hear noises in the branch work. What was wrong with me? I shook my head and placed my thumb on my phone again. I stared at the green receiver on the screen and heard the faint ringing. I started to hold the phone to my ear, convinced that in the next few seconds, somebody on the other end would pick up and I would hear Riley’s sweet voice. But before my phone had even reached my ear, I heard a voice behind me.
“Look at them down there. Having fun in their paper gazebo with their paper dresses, drinking their champagne out of paper glasses and listening to songs coming out of paper speakers.”
My hand stopped short as the words spoken reached my ear. My thumb automatically pressed on the red earpiece just as I heard a faint “Hello?” on the other end. I knew that voice. I hadn’t heard it for years now, but there was no way I would ever mistake it for any other voice. I slowly turned around and felt the heart in my chest beating faster, the rush of adrenaline running through my veins.
When I faced the person that had interrupted my thoughts and the intended call to my soon-to-be girlfriend back in New York, the shaking of my hand became stronger and I felt the phone slip out of my and and drop to the grass, where it landed upside down right to my feet. I didn’t care. My tongue felt numb and I felt a tickling sensation on my entire body. I stared at the person in front of me and wasn’t sure if it was a dream or if I just had had too many glasses of champagne. I blinked. The person was still there. I blinked again. Still there. This was real. I swallowed hard as I saw a smile spread across the person’s small and perfect lips. I stared at it, hypnotized.
“Hey, paper boy,” Margo Roth Spiegelman said.

 

 

~4~

Whenever I had thought about Margo during the past 8 years since we had last seen each other, I had pictured her as someone standing on her own two feet, self-consciously, with the typical look of somebody living on the West Coast for years. Hip clothes, a Starbucks coffee in one hand and a phone in the other one, talking to whoever was on the other side she was working with, the expression of a well-established young woman who had built up a life of her own on her face.
But I was as far away from that as I could ever be.
The girl across from me looked no day older than on the day we had last said Goodbye to each other. That smirk that had always appeared in front of my inner eye whenever I thought about her was still there. Her style hadn’t changed at all. The blue jeans she wore were still slightly washed out, and the shirt that was cut out deeper around on shoulder hung loosely around her collarbone. Considering she was close to a wedding, she looked a tiny bit under dressed. Not that I would ever complain, I thought. She was Margo, and Margo always did whatever the hell she wanted. No one knew that better than me.
I realized I had been staring at her for minutes when she said “So, you’re going to stare at me forever, or am I going to get a hug?” Her head tilted slightly to the left side, hands on her hips.
I couldn’t move. I tried to remind myself how to use my legs, my arms, my damn voice. The air around me suddenly felt way too hot (which was probably just how Florida was in the early fall – hot and sticky. At least I tried to make myself believe that that was the reason I was suddenly sweating as if puberty had hit me again.) and the sound of cicadas mixed up with the laughter and music coming up towards us from the party down the hill.
I cleared my voice.
“What…what the hell are you doing here?” Great. I hadn’t seen the girl who had danced in my dreams since I was a kid for almost nine years and the first thing coming out of my mouth was a question sounding more like an accusation. Smart move, Quentin.
“Wow, you really improved your conversation-opener skills, Q,” Margo replied and let out a laugh. I flinched at the nickname she had given me back then. I still stared at her, and seeing her smirk, her entire posture, suddenly made me furious.
“What do you expect me to do, really?” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “We haven’t been talking for the past eight years, you’ve practically disappeared from the face of the earth, and now you show up here, unannounced and, even more so, uninvited, and I’m supposed to jump up and down in joy?”
Suddenly, the air around us seemed even thicker. Margo looked at me, her smirk now interrupted by a look that I couldn’t quite pin down, because I had never seen it plastered on her face before: confusion. Nothing ever confused Margo Roth Spiegelman. She was a confusion herself. Seeing her like that startled me a bit, but I still felt rage boiling inside of me.
“What? You don’t get it?” I asked. “After all those years knowing me, you still don’t get what’s the deal with me? I thought you’d always be prepared for whatever life is throwing at you. Or probably don’t really care enough for other people to actually think about those things, for that matter.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, paper boy,” she said, raising her hands up in the air apologetically. “Slow down, will you? I thought you’d be happy to see your old buddy in crime.” She waited for me to say something, and as I stayed silent, she shrugged. “Or not. I probably should have gone with the idea of shaving off one of my eyebrows for old times’ sake, after all. I guess.” And the smirk reappeared. God.
“Stop calling me that.”
“What? Paper boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Margo.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You said it yourself all those years back. It’s an expression for flat people living their flat lives. Neither my life nor myself is flat. But you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you? Because you weren’t there.”
Without needing to look at her, I knew I’d hit a nerve. I had been more rude than I had ever thought was possible, but now I couldn’t take it back anymore. And the truth was: I didn’t want to. What I had just said to Margo had been inside of me for the past eight years without me realizing it. Not even when Riley had mentioned how sad my story actually was. And I was finally able to let it out.
The only thing was: Margo wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t even shocked. She was just…Margo. Un-blinking, unnerving. Her hands let go of her hips and crossed in front of her chest. With both our postures, we were now a reflection of each other.
“Well,” she said, looking at me with a look that my mother would’ve probably given a baby bird that fell out of its nest. Yes, my mother did stuff like that. I won’t tell you she even analyzes those poor souls, but I won’t deny it, either.
“Who would’ve thought Quentin Jacobsen would be capable of such strong language? I guess hugging is now obsolete.”
I nodded and turned around when I heard a loud noise down the hill. The sun had started setting and I guess Radar’s and Angela’s families would soon start the legendary firecrackers.
“Where have you been, Margo?” I said, looking at her with what Ben would’ve called “puppy eyes”. I couldn’t help it. “I know the last time we met we didn’t make any promises to stay in touch, not the way we did back in Agloe, but…” I stopped, not able to continue. Margo stared at me and shortened the distance between us. There were now only a few centimeters between us, I realized.
“But what happened?” she asked. “Life happened, Q. I got wrapped up in the numerous jobs I tried to figure out what I wanted. And you went off to college, remember? Starting your journalism career and from what I can see, you are pretty damn good at what you do.” She grabbed behind her and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper. When she unfolded it, I saw it was an issue of the New York Times. She held it up, her finger tapping on a story on the front page with my name under it. My story.
A couple of months back, while I had still been an intern, a huge story had been coming up about a farm outside of New York where a case of probable animal hoarding took place. Nobody so far had been able to get any pictures or even reports from its neighbors – simply because said neighbors were more scared about the owner, who appeared to be a former boxer with a tiny alcohol problem. Somehow – I still don’t really know how it had happened, – a couple of weeks back, Riley and I had managed to climb the high security fence after we had overheard someone in town telling someone who lived close to said farm that its owner, Paul Clegg, was out of town for a couple of days to get some more cows at an auction near Aurora. We got inside the property and saw the horror for ourselves. It brought tears to our eyes and hearts, and I remember the emotions in Riley’s eyes as she grabbed my hand and almost crushed it while squeezing. I had taken more pictures than anyone had ever managed before, and when I brought them back to the Times, everyone was absolutely overwhelmed and shocked by our discoveries. The next day, my story and pictures made the front page and caused Paul Clegg to resign from his activities as a farmer for the foreseeable future.
And I had turned from a simple intern to one of the Times’ best paid reporters.
I stared at Margo, her hand holding the newspaper. The article was at least four weeks old. I couldn’t believe she had seen it and more, had kept it the entire time. She had never been a newspaper person, I recalled. I began to wonder how long she apparently had kept track of my life without my knowing.
“Thank you…I guess,” I slowly said, a smile forming in the corners of my mouth, and the defensive tone out of my voice for the first time since I had started talking to her.
Margo laughed. “Don’t get on a roll now, paper boy. All I’m saying is that we were both wrapped up in our new, exciting lives, trying to figure out who and what we wanted.” I noticed her staring at the newspaper, momentarily lost in her thoughts, and I knew what she was looking at. There was a tiny picture of Riley and me standing next to each other in front of the front gate of Paul Clegg’s farm.
Margo looked up at me again, smiling, and I thought there was something inside her eyes that I had never seen before. Jealousy, maybe?
Ridiculous, bro, Ben suddenly said inside my head. Margo Roth Spiegelman and jealous? That honeybunny probably doesn’t even know how to spell that word, man.
“And hell, to be honest, I still don’t really know which direction I want my life to go, or what I want,” Margo continued, once again shortening the distance between us, now standing right in front of me, looking up to me with that mysterious smile plastered on her face that I successfully had managed to forget in the past eight years.
“But what I do know, paper boy,” she said, grabbing my hands with hers, “is that I missed you and want you back into my life.”
And then she kissed me.

~5~

I lay in my bed while the cicadas outside gave it their best chirping for a nightly concert. The air that came through the open window was rich with various smells that I had unknowingly missed the past couple of years as my life in New York had developed – freshly cut grass, sunflowers, and underneath it all, the never-fading smell of family barbecues in gardens.
I looked up at the dark, clear sky with its millions of stars gazing down on me, and I smiled when I thought of the day that lay behind me. Radar’s and Angela’s wedding had been absolutely beautiful and everything they had hoped for. The music was played by a band that both of them had seen live once a couple of years back, and their tunes made us all fall back into our teenage self. The newlyweds danced as if the world around them stood still or didn’t even exist, Angela in her bright white dress that made her look like a beautiful mermaid right out of one of the fairy tale books my dad used to read to me every night before I went to sleep when I was in preschool. And Radar, looking dapper and all grown-up, a constant grin planted firmly on his face, mouthing “I can’t believe this” to Angela over and over while they were lost in the music. I couldn’t have been happier for my best friend if I tried to.
Of course, part of me wasn’t as caught in the moment as it seemed.
Not after the kiss Margo gave me up on that hill.
Until now, I had successfully avoided the prospect of what had happened, being caught up in the hassle and buzz of two of my best friends’ special day. Margo had disappeared as quickly as she had shown up after she realized my reaction to her kiss hadn’t been the one she so apparently had expected to get. I had seen the disappointment in her eyes, the confusion about my reaction after years of chasing after her when we had still been in school. The shock that her magic somehow didn’t work on the poor Q anymore.
Or did it?
I shook my head and sighed. When I had flown over from New York, I had been so sure of myself; so sure that when I came back, all that I wanted was there to take. Riley and me. Me and Riley. It had made me shiver with butterflies in my stomach, and only when Ben had urged me to tell him everything about that “mystery girl from the Big Apple” earlier, I had realized how much she meant to me, and how, for the first time since leaving school 8 years ago, I had been truly happy and satisfied with the way my life had played out, and I couldn’t wait to tell everybody back home about her.
Until, once again, Margo Roth Spiegelman had turned my life upside down.
Suddenly, there was a gentle knock on the door. It pulled me out of my reverie, and at first, I thought I had imagined it, or that it had been some woodpecker in the trees outside my parents’ house. But then, another knock came and I sat up straight in bed, turning on the lamp on my bedside table. The clock on the nightstand read 3:27am.
“Yes?”
Slowly, the door opened, and first a mop of blond hair and then, the grinning face of Ben appeared in the door frame. Despite the late – or early – hour, I couldn’t help but grin back.
“If it isn’t the one and only Ben Starling. To what do I owe the honor of this visit at this godforsaken hour, my friend?”
The door opened wider, and there he was, all long legs and arms, as if the past 8 years hadn’t happened, as if Benjamin Jacob Starling had somehow decided to never grow up.
“It is an honor indeed, my weird friend,” Ben replied, coming in and slumping into a chair opposite my bed. “What’s up?”
I stared at him. “Uhm…you tell me. It’s almost half past three in the morning after a long wedding day, and you show up here unannounced instead of trying to get back together with Lacey.”
Ben snorted. “You wish, buddy,” he said, grinning. “That ship has sailed long ago. Though she’d still be the luckiest girl in the world if she’d be allowed to wallow in the glowing sunshine that is my life.”
I laughed, shaking my head. Ben would never change.
There was a silence between us, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one; it was like the most normal thing in the world to sit in your old bedroom at your parents’ house with one of your best friends, all smiles, and letting the summer breeze flow between you two, as if the world was still as open to you as it had been when you were a kid.
After a few moments, though, I sensed that there was something on Ben’s mind that he struggled with.
“Hey, dude, you’re okay?”
“What? Oh yeah.”
“Yeah, alright. And I am having an affair with Margo Spiegelman.”
Too late I noticed my mistake, and I took a sharp breath, hoping Ben didn’t pick up on it. But it was futile. As I saw the glistening in my best friend’s blue eyes in the gloom of the bedside lamp, I knew that the safety of our comfortable banter had lulled me into a false sense of security. And as soon as I saw the expression in Ben’s eyes, I knew that he knew, that he had planned this.
“So…it’s true, man?”
I tried to play it cool. “What is?”
“Yeah, right. Play dumb, bro.” He smirked.
After a moment, I sighed, threw back the duvet and pulled my knees up to my chest, suddenly feeling sixteen again.
“You know, it’s funny how sometimes, people see something they can’t put into relation, then mention it to someone else, and before one knows it – boom. You thought you could keep your little dirty secret from me? Me? Dude, I’m the master of secret honeybunnies.”
“Ben…” I started, shaking my head. “There’s nothing to know, seriously. It’s not what you think. And actually…I don’t think even I know what it is.”
“Oooooookay…spill, then.”
And just like that, I did.
It felt easy and hard at the same time, just like it had back when I was still in High School and Margo had been everything there was to me in the world. While I talked and made sure I didn’t forget any details – I knew Ben would be able to tell when I tried to keep something about my encounter from
him -, I tried to come to terms with my own feelings. I had been so sure that seeing Margo up on that hill had been everything I did not want right at this time that I had even managed to maintain enough distance between us, to make sure she realized I had moved on since I had last heard from her. Now, while I repeated my story to someone who had basically lived through all stages of my unrequited High School love with me, I started to think whether I had fooled myself all these years.
When I finished, Ben nodded silently and put on what he called his “thinker pose” – shoulders hunched, brows furrowed, and his index finger resting on his lower lip. All the while I sat there and waited for the jokes that inevitably would come.
“So…the verdict, your honor?” I tried to sound casual, but instead, even I could hear the anxiety in my voice.
There was a long pause and I could almost hear the wheels in Ben’s brain whirring in a steady rhythm. We hadn’t seen much of each other ever since we went off to college, but I could tell that he and also Radar both still cared about me, and the feeling was mutual. We had kept each other in the loop about our studies, life, and love interests, and I knew it must’ve been confusing for Ben to hear about yet another Margo episode after I had made it pretty clear earlier that there was a different woman in the picture, waiting for me in New York.
It sure as hell confused me.
A moment later, a wide, boyish grin spread out on Ben’s face, building dimples in the corners of his mouth and letting his blue eyes shine with a spark of somebody who just got the puppy he so desperately wished for on Christmas. I instantly regretted saying anything.
“Duuuude…! Well done, you stallion!” Ben said, coming to the bed, slapping my back. “I didn’t think you still had it in you, that the old Big Apple has softened you and turned you into a monogamist like Radar, but…”
“I heard that, Ben.”
I was momentarily startled on hearing a male voice outside my door. Then Ben shouted “Yo, man, come in already, I told you I wasn’t making shit up!” and there was a sigh, just before my door opened and Radar’s head slowly appeared in the door frame, accompanied by the shy smile that still existed despite clearly having grown up – maybe more than Ben and me combined.
The morning before, a few hours before his big moment at the altar, Radar had been clean shaven, his face almost white with fear and nervousness – if that was even possible, what with him being African-American to the core.
Now, almost a day later, a slight stubble had already started to spread around his mouth and chin, and there was a glowing in his face that I had last seen when he and Angela – his high school sweetheart and now wife, – had first had sex on our crazy road trip to New York all those years ago.
I stared at Radar, taken aback. “What the hell are you doing here, buddy?” I asked. “You know this is supposed to be your wedding night, right? I mean, I’m honored, really, but I really think this should be the one for Angela, not me…” I grinned. Ben clapped his hands twice.
“As much as I am sure Radar would love to spent his special night with his second-best friend instead of his wife…”
“Second-best…?” I interrupted.
“…we have way more urgent matters at hand,” Ben concluded.
“Yeah, because what isn’t better than having sex with the woman of your dreams?” Radar asked, sarcasm thick in his voice, but a slight smile on his lips. He could never deny loving this banter between the three of us, no matter the many times of shaking his head in Ben’s direction.
Ben snorted. “Like your second-best friend having sex with the girl he used to chase down to New York the day before graduation?”
“Okay, stop,” I said, sitting up in bed. “First of all: again – second-best, Ben? And secondly – how exactly did Margo and I have sex? Because I don’t remember telling you anything else than her basically attacking and kissing me up on that hill.”
Ben dismissed this with a wave on his hand.
“I’m just stating the facts of what undoubtedly will happen in the future, dude.”
“Ah yeah, and what makes you say that? Recently came across a fortuneteller, have you?”
Ben snorted and shook his head. His hair swayed with the movement, and it suddenly made him look at least 10 years younger.
“Experience, Q, my buddy,” he said.
“Ah. Of course.”
Radar sighed and jumped in, his face now all serious and businesslike. “Look, man,” he began, “I know you said that it’s becoming pretty serious with that girl back in New York, and I really, really want to believe you – you’re my best friend, and I truly want only the best for you. But…”
He stopped, and I almost expected him to bite his lip, something he used to do when we were younger and there was a delicate subject to breach.
“Quentin….can you tell us in all honesty that Margo kissing you had absolutely no effect on you whatsoever?”
I grinned. “What, pinky swear and all that?” But when I saw my two best friends not go along with my joke, I knew I had to stop this charade and be honest. We had been friends since kindergarten, after all.
“Okay guys, listen,” I sighed. “I…I don’t actually know what that was. Or what it meant. Or what the hell I should think about it. The only thing I know is…I am still furious with Margo. She basically disappeared on me a second time almost 9 years ago, and now she comes back and jumps on me and I…I don’t know, I just have to accept that and live happily ever after with her, now that she’s suddenly decided she wants to settle down after all?”
Ben nodded sympathetically. “I hear ya, bro. That’s…audacious, to say the least.”
“Yeah, but all that aside,” Radar interrupted, “did it work? Even if only to consider it momentarily?”
I thought for a moment, suddenly aware of the entire, fucked-up situation. Of Riley, hundreds of miles away, waiting for me to come back and take off where we left it just a couple of days ago. Of that stupid scavenger hunt all these years ago, doomed to fail from the get go. Of the way Radar and Angela had looked at each other the moment they promised to love and care for each other for the rest of their lives. How sure I had been to one day have that exact thing with Margo, even if it meant waiting for her to find herself first.
“I…I guess…” I stuttered, feeling once again like a 12-year old who’s been caught stealing candy. I felt my two best friends brace themselves.
“I guess you’re right, Radar. Part of me never got over Margo, no matter how hard I tried. No matter how I feel about Riley now. I guess I just…have to face the fact that I have to clear things once and for all before I leave for New York in a couple of days.”
“It’s audacious,” Ben said again, shaking his head. It seemed to be his new favorite word.
Thank God honeybunny was finally off the table.

~6~

“What am I even doing here?”
I kept talking to myself while pacing back and forth, hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking, head bent down, shaking with the silliness of it all. And yet, it was all too real; I stood in front of a house I hadn’t seen since the day I moved to College, and the front lawn still looked exactly as it had all these years ago, with a shabby chic that didn’t look completely abandoned. The hedges were neatly trimmed, and I remembered the animals the man of the house had once tried to carve into them, before he had to admit that his artistic talent just didn’t go as far as gardening.
Suddenly, the front door opened, and I momentarily startled; because of my nervousness, I was way too early, and she had never been one to be punctual, because it somewhat went against her ethics or something. When I looked up, my heartbeat slowed down, and I grinned at the young woman who came down the pathway towards me, handbag slung over her right shoulder, and her gait sparkling with confidence.
I hadn’t seen Ruthie Spiegelman for as long as I hadn’t seen Margo’s childhood home, but in comparison to the front lawn, she had massively changed. Her once tomboy-like body had grown into that of a slim-built young woman. Her hair, which had always been a dirty shade of light blonde, had turned into a rich, dark brown, and she wore it long, strands of it falling into her face. I was almost taken aback by how she and Margo looked nothing alike now.
“Jacobsen? Quentin Jacobsen? Is that you?” Ruthie stopped in her tracks as she recognized me, and I grinned at her, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about how attractive the little sister of my former love interest had become.
“Hey Ruthie. How are things?”
She came towards me with a spring in her step, and, much to my surprise, threw her arms around me, hugging me in a tight embrace. The Ruthie I had known back then had been anything but social towards me.
“Look at you, Jacobsen, still trying to distract me from what really is going on,” she said, laughing. The laugh made her face lit up, and I could almost see every single boy in her High School fawning for her.
“You’re not interested in me or how a tomboy like me ended up this hell of an attractive young woman, are you?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
Ruthie laughed again. “Because I know you have a date with my sister who suddenly showed up here a couple of days ago, only to jump onto you on Lincoln’s wedding day, kissing you out of the blue, telling you she’s grown-up and wants to spent the rest of her life with you?”
I stared at Ruthie disbelievingly, momentarily lost for words. Back when we were teenagers, Ruthie had hated everything Margo had been; she had always been the troublemaker of the two, and therefor, had always got more attention than Ruthie herself, the baby of the family. Margo herself, I knew, had always had a soft spot for her little sister, caring about her well-being more than anybody else’s, but as her reputation of the tough, aloof girl had to be kept up, she had never allowed anybody to see that side of her.
“She told you?” I replied when I found my speech again.
“Yeah. Took a while to get it out of her, though. Still, the glowing was as obvious as you being still in love with her.” Ruthie smirked, and all of a sudden, I didn’t know who was the older one of us anymore.
“What…what did she say?”
“Well, only what I just told you. Oh, and that it’ll only be a matter of time until you came around.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe she was right about that. I thought her fucking up prom for you back then and you becoming a man in one of the most exciting cities in the world with a hell of a great job would finally open your eyes about how bad she is for you.”
“I…I am not in love with her, Ruthie,” I explained. “In fact, I am currently seeing an amazing woman who seems to be just the right one. As in, you know…the one.”
Ruthie snorted. “Yeah, right. If that’s the truth, Jacobsen, then tell me one thing.”
“Sure, whatever you want to know.”
“Why the fuck are you standing on our front lawn looking like a lost boy waiting for his first date while Margo is currently blocking our bathroom, sprucing herself up?”
I stared at Ruthie, once again lost for words. And again, it struck me much she had grown up in the past couple of years.
“Yeah, thought so.” Ruthie passed me, walking down the Spiegelman’s driveway self-confidently, still smirking. Halfway down, she stopped and turned around, throwing me a truly concerned look that took me aback.
“Do yourself a favor, Jacobsen?” she said, crossing her arms in front of her, “Don’t let her fuck you up again, please? I always thought of you as a good catch. Don’t let my stupid sister take that away from you, yeah? You deserve to get that Happy End you dreamed of when you left Orlando.”
For a moment, we stared at each other silently, and I was surprised at how truly worried Ruthie seemed to be.
Then I nodded, and, satisfied, Ruthie nodded to, turned around and was on her way to whatever life had in store for that 17-year old girl who probably had more wisdom in her body than I had in the only wisdom teeth I had left in my mouth.

A couple of minutes after Ruthie left, and as I slowly but surely became nervous, asking myself even more whether this had been a good idea, the front door opened a second time and Margo stepped out, her usual self-confidence showing in the way she threw her hair back as she spotted me. Ruthie hadn’t exaggerated; Margo had definitely gone through a lot of effort to look presentable to me, and I suddenly felt under dressed for the occasion.
Stop this, you idiot, I chastised myself. This is just two old friends meeting up for a coffee to clear the air once and for all so you can back to your almost girlfriend in New York and live happily ever after.
I breathed in, more confidently, as another voice, more mocking and vicious, made itself heard inside my head.
Yeah, right, buddy. That’s why you came all the way to her house to pick her up instead of just meeting up at the coffee shop like two normal people who have absolutely no feelings for each other would do. Sure.
“Oh, shut up!” Too late I realized that I had that last thing out loud, and Margo, who had reached me standing in the driveway, looked at me curiously.
“Rude, Q! I haven’t even said anything yet!”
I knew she was joking by the way she tilted her head and smiled at me, but still, for a moment I felt like a teenager again, scolded by a teacher.
A damn fine looking teacher.
“What, no, sorry,” I stuttered, cursing to myself, hiding my shaking hands in my pockets still. “You…uhm…look nice.”
“Oh thank God you noticed, it took me throwing Ruthie out of the house to get this done.” When she saw my shocked expression, she laughed, and I had to admit, it was a sound I had missed in the past eight years. “Relax, Q, I was joking!”
I allowed myself a small smile, too, and silently told myself to get a fucking grip and behave like any normal 27-year-old, who knows exactly what – and more importantly, who, – he wants, would.
“Right, uhm…” I looked at Margo who herself looked at me expectantly. Clearly, so far, this was going exactly the way she had hoped it would. I cursed myself, taking control again.
“Still up for it? To…you know…talk about things?”
Margo stared at me. “Wow, you really don’t beat about the bush, do you?”
I fought the urge to redden, standing straighter, taking my hands out of the pockets of my jeans and crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Well…I’m leaving for New York in a few days, and I would really like to spend them with my two best friends who I haven’t seen for almost 9 years before one of them goes on his honeymoon and the other one moves on to whatever crazy adventure he has planned next.” I paused, making it clear who would be calling the shots in this meeting. “So, yeah, if you don’t mind, Margo, I’d like to move things forward, if it’s not too much trouble for you.”
After a moment of stunned silence – this had to be the longest time I had known her to be able to keep quiet instead of her usual snotty comeback, – Margo shrugged and we went on our way.
As we walked aimlessly alongside each other, both of us caught in their own thoughts, I tried to not glance over to her every now and then. She really looked good, despite me trying to picture Riley’s face in front of my inner eye the entire time. It was clear that Margo had really made an effort today, and if I needed any more confirmation that the kiss she had planted on my lips yesterday had not been an accident, there it was. Maybe she really had changed; maybe all that soul-searching was really over, maybe during all her travels and our lack of communication over the past couple of years, she had realized what it was that she had been missing her entire life, and had finally allowed herself to give into it, after all.
God, stop it, Romeo, the vicious voice said. What about your determination to tell her to back off for good because you’ve found a perfectly good woman who does not play games with you?
That voice was right, of course, even if it was only in my head. In my heart, I knew that Riley was the right one, and that Margo would probably never grow up. Even her recent epiphany to stop running away and finally be with me wouldn’t change anything; Margo was who she was: a free spirit, come what may. I had to refuse to believe she had turned herself around and meant what she had said yesterday to protect myself.
After what seemed like an eternity, I was surprised that despite our original plan to go to a coffee shop, we reached a small hill, and I realized it was the same one Margo and I had kissed on yesterday, and to make matters worse, the sun had started to set, its light basking us in a soft orange-red glow. It would’ve been romantic, if that had been the thing we both had in mind while we unconsciously had walked up here; in truth, I fought with all I had to keep cool, to not let that cloud my judgement or destroy my resolve to let Margo down gently.
Clearly, the universe had something else in mind for me.
“I gotta say,” I heard Margo say next to me. Somehow, out of nowhere, a blanket had appeared and we were both sitting down, looking straight into the sunset and the world beneath us. “Under that sunlight…all these paper people down there only look half as bad as they normally do. Somehow reminds me of the office tower back then, remember? Right before we broke into Sea Life?”
I realized she was talking to me, and I caught her looking at me expectantly. There was a glint in her eyes that challenged me not to be touched by her remark of one of the best and most exhilarating nights of my entire life.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Still monosyllabic,” Margo replied. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing, considering, you know, the alternative being shouted at by you.” I stared at her, and she bent her head, looking down, making scratch marks into the ground in front of her with her shoes. It was the first time I actually saw her somewhat serious and self-conscious in god knows how many years. Maybe in forever.
“Listen, Margo,” I began, knowing that my time to beat about the bush was coming to a close. “I don’t know what it is you want from me…”
“I told you, Q, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, well…” I stopped, wringing my hands in my lap, looking down at the grass. It seemed like an eternity since the wedding party and all the action down there.
“I think I made myself pretty clear yesterday,” Margo said, looking at me, taking my hands into hers and looking at me earnestly for the first time. “I have changed, Q. I don’t want to see the world anymore; I have basically seen all the paper towns that are to see out there.” She smiled. “And even if I didn’t…I’ve come to realize that all that doesn’t mean a thing if you can’t share it with the one person who means the most to you. The world doesn’t mean anything if the one person who is your world isn’t there to appreciate it with you.”
I looked at her, desperate to pull my hands back, but at the same time, incapable to move any muscle in my body. Her words had been the exact thing that I had waited for Margo to say to me ever since I found her in Agloe all these years back, and I couldn’t deny the tug in my heart at them. And the more I tried to force my feelings down, it slowly became impossible to resist her.
I looked up, and when my eyes met Margo’s, I felt her leaning in to me ever so slowly. A small, self-confident smile tug at her lips as she got closer, and that gave me the strength to break free.
I took back control of my hands, pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, shaking my head.
“You almost made me believe you, Margo, really, you did,” I said, angry at myself to have let my defenses down so easily.
She stared at me, clearly hurt. That was a new one.
“You think I’m playing you, Quentin?” This was the first time she had called me by my entire name, and I knew she meant business. “You think I’m making a fool out of myself just to fuck with your mind?”
I snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time now, would it? You always liked playing games.”
Now Margo pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her own skinny arms around them and rested her chin on top. She looked at least 10 years younger, almost the same age her sister Ruthie had been when I had started looking for Margo the day after she had disappeared.
“You’re right, Q, I did,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It was fun to screw with my own and other people’s feelings. Not to let anybody close enough to you so they can’t hurt you. Not admitting to have any kind of feelings towards somebody. But now, Q…” She paused, and when I turned my head to look at her, I saw her looking at me, too, her eyes glistening.
Was Margo Roth Spiegelman…crying?
“Now I…I do have feelings. Real feelings. Feelings that scare and excite me. Feelings that I have no idea what to do with. And those feelings…” Another pause, and when she spoke again, I think I saw the real Margo for the very first time since I knew her.
“…those feelings are for you, Quentin.”

~7~

On the day of my flight back home to New York, I woke up with a stiffness in my bones that was usually only reserved for when I was coming down with something. I would then take a long, hot shower, brew myself a coffee from a horribly expensive machine that my parents had got me when I got my internship, and then go back to bed; after a couple of hours of sleep it would all have passed and I was capable to conquer the world again.
The stiffness I felt this morning, though, was a different one, and when I realized that, I moaned and pulled my pillow over my head.
Margo.
The day before, we had talked long into the evening, and afterwards, when I had lie awake, she had bombarded me with text messages that were supposed to be brightening up the mood, to give me an impression of the “old Margo”, as she now called it. I knew she had tried to convince me of the sincerity of her words and feelings, and deep down, a part of me had wanted to give into it. To throw every risk that came with being with Margo overboard and give it a shot. If it could have, my seventeen-year-old self would’ve screamed at me for being so stupid to let her go. That even if she’d break my heart again, that at least I would’ve known what it felt like to really be part of her life, instead of only being an onlooker.
Damn, I had been very convincing back then.
But then, just before I wanted to say the words Margo so desperately wanted to hear from me, Riley’s face appeared in front of my inner eye. Sweet, innocent, Riley, who always smelled like a mixture of orange and vanilla, who was so patient and had never asked anything of me even though I had had a feeling that she expected more of our friendship, of me. I thought of that first and last kiss we had shared the day before I had left for Radar’s wedding; of the promise she had given me with it: that she would wait for me, no matter what.
In that moment I had known that I couldn’t give Margo what she wanted from me; that ship had well and truly sailed years ago when she had let any effort to keep me in her life slip away. It wasn’t even that I didn’t want my heart to be broken by her again, I thought. It was more that we had grown up, that I had grown up, and I was now ready to begin the rest of my life; and I knew that I had to play it safe, that with Riley, I would have the life I had always dreamed about having with Margo.
Of course, saying that Margo hadn’t been happy about my decision would’ve been the understatement of the year; but instead of ranting and raging, which I expected her to do, she just nodded and told me she understood. Never before had I seen anybody looking so exhausted and defeated.
And I grew up with Ben, to whom that used to be an everyday battle in High School when every girl he had asked out had turned him down eventually.
I stretched myself to get the stiffness out of my neck and back, and when I looked around, I saw that all my clothes had been washed, ironed and neatly stacked up at the end of my bed. I smiled. Despite me being twenty-seven, my mother still turned into a mother hen when she had the chance.
I stood up, quickly threw on a T-Shirt and Jeans and grabbed the big suitcase that rested under the windowsill. When I looked out of the window, my gaze naturally slipped to the house opposite; the Spiegelman’s house. I thought of Margo up in her old room, staring at the ceiling over her bed, fighting with her feelings. Then I realized how stupid that thought was; she probably was downstairs in the basement, repeatedly hitting a punching bag, with some old school rock music on her iPod.
I shook my head and turned around, starting to randomly throw my shirts, jeans and hoodies that my mother had so carefully folded into the suitcase, and just hoped she wouldn’t suddenly come in and see it.
Then there was a firm knock on the door, and I grinned as I said “Come in, Mom!”.
“Good morning, honey, today’s the big day, huh?”
I grinned at her, but as I saw her standing there, the grin slowly disappeared. I could see that my mother was fighting the urge to cry; she had only had me for a week, most of which I had either spent at the wedding, with Radar and Ben, or of course, Margo. I felt momentarily bad for not making more time for my parents; ever since I had moved to New York, we had barely seen each other save for the usual family gatherings on Thanksgiving or Christmas. I had never been an overly spoiled child, and what with my parents being psychotherapists, I had had a lot of freedom as to what to do with my spare time, as my mother had always stated how that would help shape my character.
But just as my grin disappeared from my face, a smile spread out on my mother’s face, as if she could somehow sense the turmoil inside of me.
“I should’ve known that all that ironing and folding was futile with you, Quentin,” she said, pointing to the heap of colors in the open suitcase.
“Oh, yeah, thanks for that, mom,” I replied, stepping over it to give her a hug. “You shouldn’t have, though…as you can see.” I squeezed her, a smile forming on my lips at how well she knew me.
“Oh, you know, it’s nice to do these things for somebody else than your dad for a change.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s easier to get fast food stains out than the weird collection of blotches on his overalls when he’s spent a day with his Oldtimer.”
“Amen, son.” Mom looked up and grinned, then letting go of me. “When’s your flight due?”
I looked up to the clock over the door. “Three hours. I have already checked in online last night, so I don’t have to be there too early. Ben and Radar will be coming to say Goodbye, too.”
As I turned around to start packing again, my mother started helping, folding shirts neatly and putting them back into the suitcase. I felt her tense as if she wanted to say something but didn’t really know how.
“And…have you sorted everything out?”
I cringed at her words, but of course I knew what she was getting at. She had seen me getting ready for my meeting with Margo a couple of days ago, and I would bet a month’s salary on Ben having let something slip about it, too. Of course, he would never admit to it if I asked him.
“Yeah…yeah.” I hesitated. “Margo and I have talked a lot, and we both have decided everything should stay the way it is. New York and L.A. are way too far away to work something out. Plus, Riley is really amazing, and I can’t wait to see her again.” I praised myself for at least one truth.
My mother smiled at me. “Yes, I can see that. I really can’t wait for the day we finally get to meet her. She sounds lovely.” I knew she avoided the part about Margo not for herself, but for my own sake, and at that moment, I loved her more than I could tell her.
For a while, we worked silently side by side, my mother refolding everything I had thrown inside the suitcase and me searching for stuff strewn about in my old room. When I couldn’t think of anything else I might’ve forgotten, I clapped my hands and my mother looked up from where she was just putting in the suit I had worn to the wedding.
“Alright,” I said, stretching my limbs. “I think that’s all there is.” I threw a look at the clock and realized how late it was; my flight was due in two hours. My mother followed my gaze and stood up.
“I’ll give your dad a call then and we can head off to the airport.” Before I could say anything, she was out the door and I heard her call out for my father, who supposedly had slept in the garage after working on the Oldtimer all night.
An hour and a half later, I stood at the gate my flight would leave at in a bit more than thirty minutes, my parents and my two best friends around me. I looked at them and felt a tug at my heart at leaving them behind once again for God knows how long; the look on my parents faces told me they felt the same.
“Okay, son, that’s it then,” my dad said, giving me a short hug. “Take care, and say Hi to the Big Apple from us, will you?”
“Of course, dad, though I’m not sure it’ll say Hi back to you.” I smiled at the running joke between us whenever I had went back.
Then my mom was next, and I saw her eyes glistening. No fighting back any tears now, I thought. She came to me and grabbed me tight, and I felt her limbs shaking while she hugged me.
“So good to see you, my gorgeous boy,” she whispered in my ear, and then she said something I didn’t expect at all.
“I hope you made the right decision.”
I knew she was referring to the Margo situation, and her words took me aback; my mother hadn’t been known as a big fan of the Spiegelman’s at all, their lack of upbringing and rules or the way they used to handle their daughter. I stretched my arms, letting her go, and as I stared into my mother’s tear-filled eyes, I saw the determination in them, and it seemed as if I had suddenly woken up from a bad dream. With horror, I realized she was right; that my heart was here, in Orlando, not in New York. That in all these years, it had belonged to one woman only, no matter how hard I had fought against it, no matter how much I had tried to tell myself that Riley was the right one. That I was letting my true love go for good now.
And that there was fuck all I could do about it now.
I swallowed hard as I gave my mother a last squeeze and turned around to say Goodbye to my best friends.
Ben was as cheery as ever; though I could detect some sort of sadness in his eyes, too, something he would never admit to.
“So long, Hoss!” he shouted over the roar of the engines outside the windows. “Ride up into the sunset with your missus, and take care of that gorgeous hair of yours!” He reached up and ruffled my hair, and as I pulled my best friend since kindergarten into a last hug, I had to fight back tears myself, while I laughed about his never-ending humor. I would miss this weird kid.
Then it was Radar’s turn, and maybe it was the newlywed air around him, but he seemed more sure of himself, stronger. Although deep down I knew that he was as sad about seeing me leave again as my parents or Ben.
“Yo, Mister Angela,” I said, grinning at him. “Enjoy that honeymoon in Hawaii, will you? That means loads of frozen margheritas, sunburns and most of all – keeping away from anybody while giving it the best husband performances in a hotel room any man has ever given.”
Radar shook his head, laughing out loud, while he pulled me into one of his very own, special hugs that seemed to crush your bones. Don’t be fooled by his lanky physique.
As I grabbed my suitcase from the floor and made to leave through the gate, I looked back at the four people who had been my family since I could think, and despite seeing them still standing there, I already missed them.
I also suddenly had the strong feeling that someone was watching me from far behind them, but my roaming eyes couldn’t make anything – or anybody – out in the crowd of leaving and oncoming passengers. I knew who it was that I was looking for, and despite feeling foolish, I couldn’t help it.
I probably had seen too many romantic comedies where the destined couple finally gets together just before one of them left for their flight. I shook my head and gave my family and friends a last, broad smile and a wave. Then I turned around and slowly walked through the gate with less than fifteen minutes to spare before take off.
Just as I turned the corner into the corridor, I heard someone shout my name, and I thought that maybe my mother wanted to give me one last wave or throw me a kiss or anything. I turned around, a smile on my lips, and that smile froze as I saw the person running through the crowds towards me, giving strewn suitcases and gift bags a wide berth.
Margo Roth Spiegelman.
I saw my parents turn around, and, in the last second, jump out of the way, and as they turned back to me, I saw a broad smile on my mother’s face. When she noticed, she simply nodded at me, and in that second, I knew what my seventeen-year-old self had known ever since I had first laid eyes on that girl 18 years ago.
I felt the suitcase slip out of my hand and land on the floor with a dull thud, and instead of turning the corner, I slowly made my way back to where my family stood, while I saw Margo breaking into a sprint, a grin on her lips and sweat breaking out on her forehead. I didn’t think I had ever seen her sweat before, and I began running towards her myself.
Just before our bodies crashed, we stopped in front of each other. Margo panted, looking up at me with that broad grin I had fallen in love with the day she had moved into the house opposite of mine.
“Hey.” I said, looking down at her, my heart suddenly full of butterflies. “You know I’m going to miss my flight, right?”
“Oh, paperboy,” she replied, tears glistening in her eyes.
Then I leaned into her, my lips almost crushing hers as I finally forfeited all the lies I had told myself over the past eight years and instead, accepted my fate.

~The End~

 

Book Review: Blake Crouch – “Dark Matter”

“Are you happy with your life?” 
Those are the last words Jason Dessen hears before the masked abductor knocks him unconscious. 
Before he awakens to find himself strapped to a gurney, surrounded by strangers in hazmat suits. 
Before a man Jason’s never met smiles down at him and says, “Welcome back, my friend.”

In this world he’s woken up to, Jason’s life is not the one he knows. His wife is not his wife. His son was never born. And Jason is not an ordinary college physics professor, but a celebrated genius who has achieved something remarkable. Something impossible.

Is it this world or the other that’s the dream? And even if the home he remembers is real, how can Jason possibly make it back to the family he loves? The answers lie in a journey more wondrous and horrifying than anything he could’ve imagined—one that will force him to confront the darkest parts of himself even as he battles a terrifying, seemingly unbeatable foe. (Source: amazon.com)

 

It’s been a long time since it felt right to do another book review on here, but this book captured me so much that I feel like I have to, to share my opinion of this exceptional piece of literature with the world.

So…Yes. Yes. Yes. And Yes again.

This book is the one I enjoyed the most from all the books I’ve read recently, and the one I had the most difficulties with putting it down. Plus, it was SO much better than the first book of Blake Crouch’s “Wayward Pines” series (which was the only one of the trilogy I read).

First of all – the main character. Jason Dessen is, despite working in a profession I was a loser in at school – physics – one of the most sympathetic characters I had the pleasure to read about. You’re thrown right into the story from the beginning, and you get to know everthing about Jason and his family that you need to know. I love the banter between him and his wife, and with his old college friend Ryan Holder only hours before things change for him. It’s all described in such a normalcy that it’s easy for the reader to picture every single situation in their own head, because it could be easily you or me finding themselves in that scene. What I especially liked so much about Jason is his integrity; his one and only aim keeps being his wife at all times, no matter what people or problems he’s confronted with, or in what situations he’s being pushed, deliberately or not. Jason’s the kind of person one like me would love to be one day.

All the other characters have their very own charm, too, as I mentioned before, and that’s the only tiny thing that I didn’t like about the book: the fate of one of them, someone a reader like me might come to like at a certain point, is being kept in the open. Maybe it’s exactly what Crouch intended, to have his readers’ minds still alert after finishing the book, wondering what happened to that one character. It certainly left me with that thought, and there’s a part inside of me, that, despite all the satisfaction this book left me with, that would love to know what happens to him/her (no spoilers here!)

Blake Crouch manages to find just the right balance between the technical side of his story, with all the physics stuff, and the suspense he’s building up with every single sentence. The short sentences in general really catch the reader – you read them down, a feeling inside your gut building that something big is going to happen, something scene-changing…and even if it may not, it doesn’t kill any of its overall suspense. If anything, it raises said suspense even more. And although the chapters are quite long, it doesn’t diminish any of the effects they have on the reader; they are enjoyable to the fullest, and reading them, with everything that happens, it seems like it’s just a blink of an eye when you finished another one.

The overall message of the book is amazing, though I am not able to find the right words to explain why.

Just the thought that somewhere in existence, with some “branch” that builds itself with every single decision we make/made in our life, there are hundreds, thousands, millions of other “us” who live in a complete different way, place, circumstance, and that with the right technical knowledge and abilities, these millions of versions of us could clash with each other in some way – it’s as much frightening as interesting as nothing else I ever thought about. It’s such a deceptive way of thinking that anything that Blake Crouch has thought up in his mind can be possible, and at the same time, it just gets more scaring when you think it about in this way: 30 years ago, nobody would have thought about a device like a Smartphone being possible, or artificial intelligence, or robots walking, working, somewhat “living” on their own, and nowadays, we view these things as normal, as “just the way it’s supposed to be”. The fact that the story revolves around the possibility for someone with the right – or wrong – motives to change his own life without changing the timeline of the world, to just simply step into a complete different dimension where one could be more successful, more satisfied, happier – even if it might be at the expense of your loved one’s or friends’ lives, – is strangely intriguing, and leaves the reader with the thought: “What if I had those possibilities? Would I go for it or am I satisfied with the way my “branch” reaches out?” And of course, one other, more important thought:

Will that technology one day be possible in our dimension?

So all in all, “Dark Matter” is one of the most exceptional books I had the honor and pleasure to read during the past year, and knowing that it’s going to be made into a movie in 2018 is just another sign of HOW exceptionally good it is. For people who love books having the theme of “What if…?”, this one is the perfect choice.

 

Book Review: James Dashner – “The Maze Runner” Trilogy

When Thomas wakes up in the lift, the only thing he can remember is his name. He’s surrounded by strangers—boys whose memories are also gone. Outside the towering stone walls that surround the Glade is a limitless, ever-changing maze. It’s the only way out—and no one’s ever made it through alive. Then a girl arrives. The first girl ever. And the message she delivers is terrifying.

Remember. Survive. Run. (Source: amazon.com)

It took me a hell of a long time until I finally decided to give the series a shot – mostly due to the fact that in a few days, the 1st movie is going to be released here in Germany and I was intrigued (which has absolutely nothing to due with Dylan O’Brien playing the lead role, of course not…), so I figured starting with the book first would be a good thing. However, I had heard and read very different opinions; people being disappointed of the 2nd and 3rd book, complaining about the main character’s attitude and the multiple deaths of characters they had grown close to. But after all, it was announced as something between “The Hunger Games”, “Divergent” & “Lord Of The Flies” – three of the things I love to pieces, so curiosity got the better of me and I finally started the series 6 days ago.

And hello, am I glad I did. This series is a GEM.

#1 The Maze Runner

As probably everybody who has read this book, I was into the story right away. Of course, the choice of words was weird at first, words I had never heard before, but I soon grew used to “shuckface”, “slinthead” and all the likes. After all, it was easy to imagine what the characters were saying. Plus, I clicked with Thomas right away, despite the fact that I’m female. His insecurity, yet his curiosity, and his will to find out the truth were very intriguing. Moreover, each of his characteristics made me like him the instant he showed up. He’s a character that people can identify with – I myself can imagine being taken completely aback if I’d ever been thrown in a situation that he’s been thrown in, with all my memories and past being wiped out. And also all the other characters were so well-written that you can’t help but feel with them – even with Gally.
The fact that the truth behind the “Maze” is only revealed in the last pages of this first book might be something that annoyed people – I, however, liked that way of approach done by James Dashner, because it somewhat reminded me of the series “Prison Break” and its 1st season. Everyone had a feeling they’d break out, and they had to wait until the very last episode of Season 1 to see it happen. And after it was clear that the “Maze” wouldn’t hold the kids’ future any longer, it was clear for me that they’d leave, and from that point on it was impossible for me to put the book away. The way it was written was highly entertaining and just the way I like my books to be.

#2 The Scorch Trials

The 2nd book thankfully picked up exactly where the 1st one left off – something I thought was a good move. With what the kids had to face, it would’ve been highly illogical to let time pass between the escape and the “new start”. For me, it was also very interesting as to how the characters would develop from now on. We have Thomas, who had regained some of his memories due to one very stupid deed in the 1st book, and who grew more and more confident of himself and the place he starts to take over in the small group of kids. The reader feels how he gets stronger, how he knows what he wants, despite the fact his past still is a mystery to him. And the reader also feels with him as his thoughts about who to trust and who to mistrust keep him in a constant inner agony. To some people (according to the reviews on amazon and from a friend of mine), that was somewhat annoying – the constant reminder of the horror Thomas had to go through at the end of the 1st book, and the whining over and over, his seeming inability to let things go, to move on; but I, personally, liked it. It made him very human to me, struggling with himself and the people he’s closest to – something I can very well relate to (although not in that exact way as he experienced it, of course).
But the character I grew the closest with, the character I started to like more than anyone else, about who’s life I was in constant fear – that was Minho. I utterly loved his development since the 1st book, I absolutely enjoyed the change James Dashner has put him through – willingly or not. The snippy comments, the “Dude!” outbursts, the constant sarcastic/wry remarks – it was the thing I mostly enjoyed about “The Scorch Trials” over everything else, over the story, the chills and the suspense. Had James Dashner only broached in very small glimpses what kind of boy Minho is, he played it out very well from the moment that he took over a bigger role in the whole story in this 2nd book. And I have nothing but praise for that.

#3 The Death Cure

All in all, that might be the weakest book of the three, up until a certain point closer to the end. I understand why people kept complaining about the “downfall” of the series with every book, and I have to admit, partly, it annoyed me, too, how the characters of Thomas and Teresa behaved. I understand a lot of the younger readers thought of them as maybe some kind of Katniss & Peeta from the “Hunger Games” series – what with them ending up happily ever after at the end of the series, – and that constant discussions and fights were nothing they wanted to have. The whining and moaning of Thomas didn’t stop in this book (I’m not gonna lie about that), and without bringing in more spoilers than I already have, they are increased with every new shock, terror and task that Thomas and his friends have to face. But let’s be honest: this is the last book of the series, and every reader who expects it to sugarcoat things, to go down easily just doesn’t understand book series like that. Because at the end, “The Death Cure” surely does everything else but sugarcoat, and somewhat even exaggerates with using brutality. The long journey of Thomas, Minho, Teresa, Newt and everyone else is finally coming to an end, and I, personally, wouldn’t have wanted it any other way than how it was done by James Dashner. It was the right way, and I loved it.

Resumé: Of course (especially in the 2nd and 3rd book) there have been turns in the destiny of Thomas and the other Gladers that were so numerous that they hovered at the edge of illogicality for me (the countless times they are able to escape certain captures or deaths are mostly to be named here). But in the end, when I think about it, they kept the story going, kept it flowing – just when the reader thinks “Now it’s over for them, definitely!”, they come out of it, almost unfazed, only to be thrown into the next mess when the same thoughts come back.
Of course there have been deaths throughout all three books that shook me hard – and I won’t be shy to admit I shed the one or other tear over the people dying; that’s how close I personally grew to the characters. But in the end, if I am honest, they were needed to put the characters through a development that was credible and entertaining (minus the whining), to keep them interesting enough that the reader wants to know how they deal with it. Especially the last death in the final book was hard – although part of me kind of knew what would happen, because I’m just that kind of a realist – and sometimes, things are just too good to be true.
Of course not everything in this series was perfect. There are barely perfect books out there.

But all in all, to me, James Dashner came VERY close to “perfect” with his “Maze Runner” series.

Well done.

 

Book Review: Donna Tartt – “The Secret History”

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality their lives are changed profoundly and forever, and they discover how hard it can be to truly live and how easy it is to kill. (Source: amazon.com)

I am glad I gave this book a shot after reading a very tedious excerpt of “The Goldfinch” before. Of course, this book tended to be quite tedious in parts, too – something that makes me understand why people say that Tartt is hard to digest, that after reading one of her books, they had to take a break before starting other books written by her. And that is the only reason why I “only” gave it 4 instead of 5 stars. And tedious for me in this regard means sometimes too long trains of thoughts from Richard, the narrator, filled with mentions of Greek mythology, philosophy – but really, that is just my personal opinion/problem, and not a reproach to the author herself or her writing skills – on the contrary, because after all, I totally knew what I was getting myself into when I started this book.

The story is different from other murder stories – you know right at the beginning who’s the murderer and the rest of the book is an explanation WHY the murder happens – something that some books sometimes are lacking. And I am not talking about the “normal” reasons for a murder – the person being killed was rude to the others, slept with someone’s wife, betrayed the protagonist in other ways – Tartt goes way deeper into the psyche of 5 college kids who try everything to maintain their normal life, to pretend everything’s fine, and she takes the reader on the constant journey how 4 of them after the murder keep on living after that life-changing experience. She never stops opening up the psychological problems in the college kids’ “new” life, in their minds, she draws the reader in, makes him/her part of her story.

One thing I loved most about this book is the long conversation about a quarter into the book where Henry and Francis, two of the main characters, are telling Richard – the narrator – everything they’ve been keeping secret from him. I loved that conversation, the way it was written, the way Tartt used her words. She made me somewhat feel like I was part of that story-telling, like I was sitting in the same room with them, listening to everything they revealed. And that is a talent that nowadays not many authors have (at least for me and my taste in books and authors). Overall, for me, ALL of the conversation between the 5 young people are highly entertaining, so that it was very hard for me to putting that book away – they are compelling in a way that is too difficult to explain.

Plus, Tartt never gets tired to reveal even the deepest depths of her characters. The further you get into the story, the more you find out about Henry, Camilla, Charles and Francis, and just when you think you know all there is to know about them – something else is revealed. The only two people who really kind of stay mysterious to the reader are Henry and Julian, their teacher. To some people, it might not be satisfying, but to me, it gives the story and its end a bit of extra spice. Everybody can make up their own mind if and how everyone found their peace eventually or not. I like this way of approaching readers.

It’s going to take some time until I’ll approach another of Tartt’s books now – maybe even “The Goldfinch”, after all, – but I definitely do not regret taking this one onto my book shelf. It’s an amazing piece of modern literature, and the best thing about it: it’s a book you will not forget that easily.

And that is – in my opinion – the greatest gift an author can make and get.

Remember your very first story?

I do remember it, vividly. It was something that was placed in the “Star Wars” universe just after the 2nd prequel back in 2002″, and after I read a novel that was centered inbetween “The Phantom Menace” and “Attack Of The Clones”. I remember reading that book and somehow ended up writing my own short story. When I remenisce now, and when I look back at what and how I was writing back then, a shiver goes through me. It was bad. Like, really bad. I can’t believe the grammar I used back then. But still, they were my first attempts in writing, and I still remember the vivid fantasy I had back then, making things up that would probably never happen (welcome to my life).

But what I remember more vividly is 5 years back. I had just finished my job training 2 years earlier, and I was massively unhappy with where I’ve worked. Since those first tries in writing as a teenager, with all the “Star Wars” centered stories, my biggest dream had been to become a professional writer one day. I knew I wasn’t even close to be as good as others were, and maybe never would be, but that never diminished my love for books or texts. On the contrary: somehow, I felt challenged. Then, one day, I got my hands on a copy of “Face Of Death” by Cody McFadyen, and soon after (just because this is one of the goddamn best books that have ever been written in the history of books and writing), “Shadow Man”, which was the first book of the series. And when I was finished, I knew what I wanted to do.

Writing my own story.

Not a short story this time, like all those years before, no. A long one. A real book.

And thanks to these two amazing books, my brain was practically overflowing with ideas. I had no idea where to put them, because they were so many and they came to me in such a rush that I didn’t know what to write first. Before I knew, I had finished 9 or 10 chapters. I was on a roll, how writers like to describe their very inspirational phase. I had quite a few people/friends read a few excerpts of what I had written down so far, and everyone of them was pleasantly surprised of what I had brought to paper. They urged me to go on, telling me they wanted to read more (which, of course, I couldn’t do because I still had planned to one day publish that exact piece of work, and what good would it do if a lot of people already knew every single bit of it?). That was most likely my biggest and most productive time in the writing process. Whenever I got a good comment or critics, it kept me going, kept inspirations, ideas and motivation flow into my head like a river. I had even created my own cover (see picture above) and had researched about certain places and death methods in the USA, etc. I loved this process.

Then time took its toll, and things in my life happened that stopped me being able to write anymore. By then, I had already started on writing the very last chapter (without even knowing much about what was happening inbetween – I had stopped writing the “normal” chapters in a row when I reached the 15th chapter, then started on the final chapter because I had a great idea of revealing everything), and without sounding bigheaded: it was amazing. I absolutely loved it. But somehow, I had lost my spirit. I just stopped writing because I didn’t get any feedbacks anymore. I didn’t ask people to read what I had written down because I had started doubting myself. My ability to write anything decent that I could live with had slowly faded, and whenever I read back what I had put onto paper, I wanted to take it and crumple it up, burn it immediately, because I thought “What kind of crap is that?”. I know I was in a self-destructive phase, concerning my writing career. I went from having the brightest future planned ahead in my mind from zero ability and motivation to write whatsoever. Years passed where I regretted bygone times, where I dearly missed the times where I could write all day and night and didn’t think I would ever be able to go to bed without writing at least one whole chapter, and I have never been able to relive those times, I was caught in such massive self-doubts that I stopped believing that I would ever start writing again, let alone on that long story I had done so far – because I had started to despise it.

And then last year happened, when I started this blog. First meant as nothing but a theatre based blog where I could write down my experiences in german and London theatres/musicals, or travel experiences, it soon turned into a blog where I first started writing about books I’ve read – until I published my first Short Story on here. I don’t know how it happened – it was probably one of my friends starting publishing short stories on her own wordpress blog, too, – but that was the moment I slowly stopped thinking I wasn’t capable of writing anymore. I didn’t get much feedback on what I expressed on here, but the few things I got from some people motivated me. I was back on a roll, even if only very slowly, and I’m not even close to be back where I used to be 5 years ago.

Today, I have published 4 whole Short Stories on here, but somehow, I could never forget that first story I wrote. The first real story. The one that I originally had planned and dreamed of being published. The one where I had put in so much love and sweat and work and inspiration and effort. It always drifted around in the back of my head whenever I sat down to write a blog or a story or even a letter to a friend. I could never forget it, like a long lost love. And still, for 5 years, I hated it after I had given up on it, and whenever I re-read it, I was hating myself for the crap I had written down. But somehow, I could never throw it away or delete it from my harddrive, even if I would maybe never look at it or take it into my hands again. But two days ago, I took all my courage and will and got it out.

Since then, I have made a promise to myself: write at least 1.000 words a day after work. I have begun to translate it into english (as I had originally written it in my native language, german, but now prefer the english language way more), and re-write it anew. Putting in some changes here and there, especially the parts where it lacked a lot of logic in retrospect (which was probably the reason why I hated it so much). Right now, every day there is enough in my head to keep to my daily goal of 1.000 words, today it were even 1.800, and I feel like this time, I can really finish what I’ve started. After all, that one story had been my baby. The one thing that back then meant more than anything to me. It had held the promise of a better life for me, for my biggest dream to come true, to escape the dull and lonely life I was living and nowadays somehow have come to live again, because hands down: life and people never stop changing, the world never stops turning just because you need it to stop.

And the thought of finally giving that one dream that I gave up on 5 years ago another chance of coming true is beautiful. I know I am by far not a good writer, there are loads and loads of good writers out there, who have more potential than me and do not need a dictionary by their side while they’re typing. But I also know that I finally found some confidence again to fulfil my dream, to trust myself again with the feeling that I actually CAN do it this time. That I can finish what I started, no matter how long it will take. And that this time, hopefully, I will not let myself doubt my abilities because of the lack of feedback or support I get, because of so-called friends’ ignorance and lack of caring for what means a hell of a lot to me. I feel motivated again to start all over with what I have started 5 years back, with finding that one special potential in my 1st real story that I have seen in it all these years back.

And I hope to one day being able to present my story to the world.

Book Review: Jenny Lawson – “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”

Jenny Lawson realized that the most mortifying moments of our lives—the ones we’d like to pretend never happened—are in fact the ones that define us.
In the #1 New York Times bestseller, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”, Lawson takes readers on a hilarious journey recalling her bizarre upbringing in rural Texas, her devastatingly awkward high school years, and her relationship with her long-suffering husband, Victor. Chapters include: “Stanley the Magical, Talking Squirrel”; “A Series of Angry Post-It Notes to My Husband”; “My Vagina Is Fine. Thanks for Asking”; “And Then I Snuck a Dead Cuban Alligator on an Airplane.” Pictures with captions (no one would believe these things without proof) accompany the text. (Source: goodreads.com)

How do you explain this book to anybody who has neither heard of it nor read it themselves? Answer: you can’t, which will make this blog post a lot of fun. Two things that are for sure about it, though: 1. I have never read a better and more entertaining book than this one, having me more than once in stitches including stupid grinning on the bus home and, as a result of that, weird looks from my felllow bus companions. And 2., never in my life have I used so many bookmarks in a book before (thank God I have it as a Kindle version, I guess. Would be funny to look at if on my bookshelf otherwise). There’s not one page in this book that will not make your fingers wanting to switch over to the “Put to bookmarks” button, I guarantee you.

For starters, Jenny Lawson didn’t have the best and wealthiest childhood in the world, if you think about money. With what she grew up were experiences. Weird experiences. Loads of them. For example, one day, her father, who was a taxidermist and always brought dead (or almost dead, that is) animals home for Jenny and her sister to play with. One of those lovely things was a little racoon called Rambo who attacked Jenny’s sister when they were little and Jenny described it as “…and it was totally awesome.” Or the part where she says that if the reader can’t take a book as disturbing as hers (with talking about standing in a dead animal in her father’s taxidermy shop), they should “get another book that’s less disturbing than this one. Like one about kittens. Or genocide.” Sadly, I am not making this up, this is exactly how it’s described in the book.

I know that mostly all of the experiences Jenny makes in this book, throughout her life, with a gang of turkeys (or, according to her father, “big quails”) following her around school, wild animals like racoons, cougars or goats showing up right next to your head all of a sudden, being an outcast at school, having more than one miscarriage, experiencing drugs, are not the stuff you should usually laugh about (except for the first two things, maybe). But the thing I personally love about this book is that there is no sugarcoating whatsoever in it. Jenny Lawson describes it as it has happened, as she has experienced and suffered through it, and she does it in the most entertaining way the reader could ever imagine. Her life hasn’t been kind to her all the time, but she got through it, she straightened her back, directed her gaze into the future and never looked back in pity. In fact, she embraced every single episode in her life, no matter how weird and unbelievable it has been. This is an ability I admire more than anything else, because it makes the story itself so vivid, and transfers the book into a complete pageturner, and, also, grabs you by the hand and doesn’t let you go until you’ve finished.

I have read critics about this book where people said they found Jenny Lawson “annoying”, “unbelievable” and “unsympathetic”. I, however, do not understand such an opinion. For me, even during the introduction of the book, she became one of the most sympathetic writers that are out in the world. Maybe it’s the fact that she is exactly like one of my friends, Laura, is, who’s got her own blog on here (mysticmonkey.wordpress.com), and who is the most entertaining writer/person for me. While I was reading, it was like I was reading a book of a friend like Laura. I instantly bonded with Jenny when I read about how her parents once kicked her out a driving car (which was totally an accident, don’t be shocked, you’ll understand it if you read it) in the introduction, and the way she writes and tells her life story…I can’t explain it, it just got to me, and was the foundation for me admiring this author to no end.

The ability to grab a reader by the hand, pulling them in and making them feel like a part of the book, like they can’t put the book down for even a second because they’d feel like a part of them is being put down – that is an ability that is the one that I, myself, strive for one day. Jenny Lawson’s writing talent is absolutely out of this world, she describes simple, normal, yet sometimes horrible facts of life in such a hilarious way that the reader can’t help but enjoy every single word of it. And me, personally, she got to the point where even just a few sentences into the introduction, I wished I wouldn’t have started the book because I knew I would have finished it just far too soon, and that I could read this book for the 1st time again.

There is no way I can give her only 5 out of 5 stars in my rating, so I’ll just say: go, buy this book. It’s worth every penny, and it will make your life brighter and is a true enrichment to every bookshelf.

Simply the BEST. BOOK. EVER. Thank you, Jenny Lawson. Well done. Very well done.

Book Review: Lori Nelson Spielman – “The Life List”

Brett Bohlinger seems to have it all: a plum job, a spacious loft, an irresistibly handsome boyfriend. All in all, a charmed life. That is, until her beloved mother passes away, leaving behind a will with one big stipulation: In order to receive her inheritance, Brett must first complete the life list of goals she’d written when she was a naïve girl of fourteen. Grief-stricken, Brett can barely make sense of her mother’s decision—her childhood dreams don’t resemble her ambitions at age thirty-four in the slightest. Some seem impossible. How can she possibly have a relationship with a father who died seven years ago? Other goals (Be an awesome teacher!) would require her to reinvent her entire future. As Brett reluctantly embarks on a perplexing journey in search of her adolescent dreams, one thing becomes clear. Sometimes life’s sweetest gifts can be found in the most unexpected places. (Source: amazon.com)

I actually can’t believe it took me so long to give this book a shot; the last time I cried while reading a book was when I was finishing “Paper Towns” by John Green, back at the end of April 2014. And this book…man, it is definitely a Must-Read.

I admit, when I read about the subject in it, I thought: “No.” Because hands down, I can’t think of anything less appropriate for me to read than a daughter bonding even more with her mother after her death, considering I don’t really have – or want – a relationship with my own mother. Plus, working down a list of goals a girl of fourteen years has written down is something you may find in more than one bad romantic movie (and we all know how much I dislike romantic stuff, don’t we?) In the end, I let myself being convinced to start on it yesterday due to the good reviews I read online. And may I say, they are all more than justified.

1. Have a baby, maybe two.
2. Get a dog
3. Stay friends with Carrie Newsome forever!
4. Help poor people
5. Have a really cool house
6. Buy a horse
7. Fall in love
8. Perform live, on a super big stage
9. Have a good relationship with my dad
10. Be an awesome teacher!

I admit, reading this list that Brett, the main character, was given, was like reading the script to a bad teenager movie. And considering a mother who had just died had put these task onto her grieving daughter’s shoulders seems somewhat outrageous; it seems like Mrs. Bohlinger has never really known her daughter after she got out of her teenage years. But if the reader looks closer, and maybe even inbetween the lines, they can see the determination behind these life goals, even the love she must have felt for her. How much she wants her loved one to be happy. And yes, I can totally identify with the horror and shock Brett felt when she is presented with this list that is the only way to get her inheritance; just as her, simply the thought of getting on a big stage infront of loads of people make my skin pour over with sweat. I guess than when you’re thirty-four years old, the dreams you had as a fourteen-year old seem somewhat ridiculous and small, and nowadays, totally unreachable – people change, and so do their hopes and dreams for the future.

Surprisingly, the list Mrs. Bohlinger gives Brett leads her on a journey to find herself instead of just giving her directions to deserve her inheritance. And I love this message. They say that you should never look back on what’s been past, but in this case, I guess it’s what keeps Brett going, and what could even get other people going. In some way, the reader learns that you need to prove yourself that you can do certain things, no matter what, and that you believe in yourself, even if there will be throwbacks, like a break-up or losing your job. You just have to get going.

The love story that Spielman has put into this book can be somewhat annoying; the numerous men Brett gets to know and seems to fall in love with is ridiculous – as a person who doesn’t think life is as it is in movies or books, and who will never believe that can happen to herself, – and just as the reader gets comfortable with one of her “relationships”, things are changed completely and they’re back at square one. I caught myself twice, thinking “Oh, come on!” because I desperately wanted Brett to finally find “The One”, and to be honest, all men in this book (except for Andrew, who’s probably one of the least likeable people I have ever read about; even Draco Malfoy in “Harry Potter” grew to me at some point!) were beyond adorable and lovely. And that is a nice move of Spielman; having you on the hook in some kind of way, keeping you reading because after every “failure”, your hope that there will be a Happy End just grows – at least that’s what happened to me while reading.

And that exact kind of hope is what made me cry more than once. When Brett finally finds and meets her father – I had the picture of the moment so clearly in my head as if it was real. When she finds her former best friend, Carrie, again – man, who doesn’t want that kind of friendship that doesn’t seem to have changed even after over 18 years? The moment she chooses a dog when visiting the animal shelter together with Brad, her mother’s lawyer, and the entire bonding with one of her students, Sanquita, up until the moment she holds her own child in her arms was more than crying material for someone who so seemingly despises anything emotional and romantic when it comes to books or movies.

The only thing that bugged me a bit was that – at least to me, – it was kind of obvious who Garrett Taylor is. Maybe I’m overly perceptive, but from the moment it’s clear that he and Brett will probably never meet, because it’s just Spielman’s kind of way to play with the reader, I wanted to rush through the book to finally see my suspicions being confirmed. And maybe that’s the reason I don’t like love stories – they are way too predictable for my taste; mostly, you already know at the beginning how the book/movie is going to end. But nonetheless, not even that could keep me from not being able to put this book away, and maybe it even put my expectations higher and my emotions on the edge of overflowing when the moment of truth was revealed – because I definitely cried like a baby. And that is an ability that not many authors have these days.

I think it’s safe to say that “The Life List” has surprised me in a way that I never thought would be possible, and it just has manifested the thought in my head that maybe I should give books like this more chances to win my heart over.

Because Lori Nelson Spielman DEFINITELY won my heart over with this piece of gold.

Book Review: John Green – “Will Grayson, Will Grayson”

One cold night, in a most unlikely corner of Chicago, Will Grayson crosses paths with . . . Will Grayson. Two teens with the same name, running in two very different circles, suddenly find their lives going in new and unexpected directions, and culminating in epic turns-of-heart and the most fabulous musical ever to grace the high school stage. (Source: amazon.com)

It took me a very long time until I finally decided to read this book – it’s actually the only one that I kind of…rejected from the get go. Now, people might now be calling me racist or homophobic, but the honest truth is that I didn’t plan on reading it because it’s about a boy, Will Grayson, and his best friend, who is gay. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not homophobic in any way, believe it or not. Each to their own, after all, we’re all just people and shouldn’t be judged by who we love. It’s just…I don’t know, I just don’t care at all about gay people. They live their life, I live mine, but I don’t really care about them. They’re just…people. Like you and me. And I am not that kind of person who’d ever go out on the streets to fight for gay rights. Sorry. I’ll probably get a lot of hate for that now, but whatever. That’s not the point, anyways.

The point is – this book. There are books you read that leave you in complete awe for them, making you instantly want to read it again and wish you could then read it for the first time once more. Then there are books that you put away after you’ve finished and think that you don’t really need to read them again at all cost. This one book here is somewhere inbetween. It’s not the fault of the way John Green has chosen his words (for the first time, together with David Levithan), or the set up of the story or the characters. Because, hands down, as always, Green just had a very good hand at choosing his characters, of bringing them to the reader.

First of all, there’s Will Grayson. He’s kind of a sad character at first: a reserved young boy who lost his group of friends due to the fact that he stood up for his gay best friend. He never had a girlfriend before and doesn’t even let himself think too much about it, because he follows two simple rules: 1. Don’t care too much and 2. Shut up. In other people’s opinions, Will is kind of a robot due to this, but for him, caring too much only leads to misery, so he keeps away from all things emotional and romantic – with which a lot of people might be able to identify, me included. During the story, he changes his thoughts on things, and that change is one of the best things about the book; it’s lovely to see this kind of shy boy changing into someone who starts embracing life with all its flaws and miracles, no matter what. That alone teaches the reader one very important lesson.

Then there’s Tiny. Who, surprisingly, is everything else but tiny. He’s the distinct opposite of that; he’s ridiculously tall, and from the sounds of it, he’s also pretty “chubby”…basically everything you would never want to be while in High School. But despite that, Tiny is obviously the most happy person on the planet, the most positive gay boy you’ll ever meet in your entire life. He fully embraces himself and his life with all the bad and the good things, he falls in and out of love, he doesn’t regret a move he makes, even if it pisses people massively off. So once again, John Green manages to built a character you just can’t help but love with all of your heart. He thrills the reader with his weird and crazy ideas (a musical based on his 17-year-old life – come on, if that isn’t crazy, then what is?), and, mostly, with his capacity for enthusiasm for all things that life has to offer. And I think everybody should have that kind of person in their life.

Last but not least, there’s the other Will Grayson to mention. When the reader is introduced to him, he is a young teenage boy who is gay but hasn’t got the courage to come out to neither his mom nor his environment, and is on the edge to commit suicide. Seriously, Will is practically the darkest person I have ever read about in John Green’s books. Even Margo Roth Spiegelman (in “Paper Towns”) or Alaska (in “Looking for Alaska”) aren’t THAT dark. It’s kind of depressing when you read about how lonely and without hope Will is – which is the saddest thing, because once you realize that, you realize that there are hundreds of thousands of teenagers out there who feel this exact same way, no matter for what reason, and it hits you right in the face without warning. But just as the “other” Will, this one goes through a change during the story, and that is mostly thanks to Tiny, even if their paths only cross through pure and cruel coincidence (if you decide to read this book, you’ll know what I mean by “cruel”). And in some way, this way of two destinies crossing each other is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever had the pleasure to read about.

From a certain point in the story, there are two strings of storyline, told by each of the two Will Graysons, before and after they meet. For me, it was a bit irritating at first, because the gay Will Grayson (that is my chosen adjective to succesfully differentiate them – without any intention of insulting whatsoever!) sets the capitalization rules out of order, and for someone who’s very srict about grammar – even in a foreign language, like for me as a german, – this can be weird at first. But the way gay Will tells his story helps the reader to get over that pretty quickly, and more so, somehow, his way of telling is making it easier to differentiate the two storylines.

The end of the story…I am not sure if I like it or not, and that’s probably the main reason why I am not sure what to think about the book. Once I realized that from a certain point in the story, it moves quickly towards the end, I got all excited and actually wasn’t able to put the book away anymore. I wanted to know if the plan that gay Will Grayson and his friend, Gideon, are working out, is going to success once it’s out in the open. And yes, maybe I am a helpless romantic after all, although I always say I despise love stories, but I was really hoping for a Happy End at that point. That two boys are running into the sunset with each other, holding hands and probably riding on unicorns (admit it, everybody had that kind of picture in their head at least once in their life).

Fact is: the story has an open ending. One that lets you have your own opinion on how gay Will’s plan succeeded, and if it’s a Happy End or not, or just some crappy thing that leaves you with more questions than you had at the beginning. Me, personally, I have no problem whatsoever with open endings. In fact, I absolutely love them. I have published 3 stories on here myself, all of which have an open ending for the reader to make up their own mind. And I think these kind of endings sometimes are the best ones an author can come up with – if they are written perfectly, still with that kind of suspense that lets you sigh and say “Oh come on, really? You can’t do that to me!” And “Will Grayson, Will Grayson” is not an exception of that. It’s not as amazing as maybe (for me) the ending of “Pet Sematary” by Stephen King – but then again, NOTHING beats THAT one, and anyways, it doesn’t matter. For how the story about the two Will Graysons and Tiny is told, it is the perfect ending and maybe the only one that matters. The reader doesn’t need to know whether there is a Happy End or not, that everyone lives happily ever after, because from the way the very last sentence is written down, you just know it. You just feel it (apart from the fact that the described musical that Tiny brings onto stage makes you want to pull your hair because you now want to see it for yourself so desperately even though you know it doesn’t even exist in real life).

And the most important thing: this book tells a lesson. A moral that tells the reader that sometimes, not feeling anything, not caring can be the thing that keeps you sane, but at the same time, can make you absolutely insane and keep you from all the good things life has to offer for you. And, most importantly, that tolerance is one damn important thing in this world out there, and that, no matter what the case, it doesn’t matter at all what others think of you or your friends – as long as you’re okay with yourself, and as long as you love yourself and the ones who love you.

What better lesson is there to learn from this book?

Thank you, John Green.

The Freedom Of Being A Respectful Writer

Recently, I have seen and heard a lot of things concerning people writing, may it be on blogs, their facebook profiles, twitter, blogpost, whatever. And to say I am totally indifferent to anything that I have seen or heard is the understatement of the year.

Because I am not.

I am going to be blunt: I don’t have a lot of readers on here, nor will I probably ever have. I only have a handfull of readers that are also my friends, so maybe they feel obliged to do so (which they don’t have to, actually, but hey, I feel honoured, thank you, my loves!). I almost never get any feedback on anything I write unless I’m asking for it (which I do next to never, because, come on, it’s pathetic), or comments on my blog or somewhere where I put the links up. And that is okay. I mean, I am not lying, of course I’d love to have more readers I know of, to have more feedback, to have people saying they love what I have to say on here whenever I post something, that they’d like to read more of me, giving me more positive encouragement so I know I should keep on writing, that what I’m putting into words on here is good stuff – who doesn’t wish for that kind of thing? Even if someone says they don’t do it to be noticed (and I count myself into that very little group, too), deep down, everyone of us wants to be noticed, to be acknowledged and praised. It’s normal, it’s a human thing. And that’s okay. Also, I know I probably will never be as popular with any of the stuff I’m writing as some of the other wordpress/blogpost users, neither will I ever reach the point where people spread my stuff anywhere and talk about it, and that’s also okay. I am not a native english speaker, I was born and raised german, I live in Germany, so it’s natural I can never reach what other, native english writers/bloggers achieve. But I always try my best in writing in english, always have and always will. It bugs me because I despise Germany and speaking german (oh, the irony), but it’s who I am and where I live for now, I can’t change it, and that’s also okay. But there is one thing that’s absolutely NOT okay in my eyes.

Feeling superior over other writers.

As I said, I know there are a lot of good and decent writers out there, people I admire for their writing skills, even if it’s the dumbest things they post on their blogs, I admire their words, can’t get enough of them because they are just plain good and highly entertaining (like my friend Laura’s, blog, check it out, you probably won’t regret it – unless you have a problem with a lot of fangirling or talking about men being naked and stuff 😉 http://mysticmonkey86.wordpress.com/ ). I also know that I am very blessed with the little writing skills I have in english with being german and all. I’m not taking it for granted whenever I have a good idea and can put it into decent words (like my first published short story on here a few months back), and I am always beyond grateful when someone says something nice about that stuff to me (or to be exact, I am always over the moon about it, like I just won the lottery, but saying it out loud makes me look weird, so I’m not going to admit that….oh, wait…). It means an even bigger deal to me if someone on the outside of my life says it, because of course, as a writer, you’re bound to think that when friends say something nice, they do it because, well, they are your friends. I’m not saying the few friends of mine who read my stuff (thank you again!!!) aren’t genuine, because I know for a fact that they are, that they mean it when they compliment me every now and then. But I don’t know, if someone who doesn’t know you, your life, your circumstances or whatever, thinks that what you put into words is good or even great – that is true happiness to me as a hobby writer.

I’m not doing any of my writing purely to be noticed, to be seen and discovered as the next Joanne K. Rowling or Karin Slaughter (good god, no, these two are goddesses!), I’d mostly do it for myself, and you can ask anybody who knows me on twitter or facebook: I NEVER put my link to something I wrote on here anywhere more than once. I post it once, and that’s it. I’m not messaging or tweeting people to make them read it, to tell me what they think (although a lot of times, I really want to because I don’t have a very high opinion on what I write down). I am not spamming them with it, or asking what they think. I’m not sending links to my posts/blogs to strangers, or people I admire, even if I’ve mentioned these people in them (did that a few times at the very beginning of this wordpress thing, but soon felt like an intruder, a creepy and needy little girl, so I was soon done with that). I’m not constantly talking about my blog, not stating how many views I had on here, how “popular” I am on here, and not only because I just simply think: I am not popular at all, in any kind of way. It’s more like it’s annoying the hell out of me that people actually do it. Yes, you can be proud of what you write, I am not saying that it’s wrong to be proud or feel good about it or wanting to talk about it all the time, because of couse, I am often proud of my stuff on here, too. Every writer puts a lot of time and heart into what they put onto paper or on a blog like this. They have these ideas in their heads, or experience something (like in my case, mostly West End shows or musicals in general) that they want to tell the world about, or, just as me, just want to have a place where they can write it all down for themselves, like some kind of therapy. Or some kind of memory to look back on a few months or years later, to look back on that stuff and think: “Oh, I remember that. What a lovely time I had back then.” And it takes a great deal of courage to actually publish something of yours, to put it out into the world for everyone to see.

But sadly, there are judgy people out there. People who think they invented writing, that they have the only right to be recognized, to be acknowledged with what they write. People who are blind to nice words when you want their opinion on your words, who even find the tiniest mistakes in them, no matter how hard you try to take them out (and I can tell you, as a german, I make more mistakes in my words/blogs than I like myself, and I’m always on the edge of castigating myself). There is no nice word whatsover to what you have written down, no nice word of encouragement about all the effort you made to find the words you found in the end. Instead: judgment and this nagging feeling in your stomach, the feeling that you’re just not good enough. That you will NEVER be good enough, no matter how hard you try at being a good writer.

People like that are the worst. They think they are superior because maybe they are better at grammar or articulating themselves, or having better ideas about which they are writing. People like that are always pointing out even the most ridiculous flaws in your stuff because they just can’t take the fact that someone may be as good as they are, maybe sometimes even better. They can’t live with someone taking away their shine, shoving them off the high horse they have put themselves on, or others have done that – which in many cases just isn’t even justified. Because let”s be clear here: if you keep pushing people into reading your stuff, into telling them your opinion, into complimenting you for whatever you have written: that is NOT genuine.

Truth is, people get annoyed if they are pushed into doing that. They start thinking “Oh, for god’s sake, let’s get this over with.” I stand up to what I said before: I WANT my praise, I WANT to be acknowledged, I WANT people to compliment me and spread word about my writing stuff and skills. Jeez, I’m human. I’d be the worst liar in the world if I’d actually claim otherwise. But if I would achieve that by pushing them into doing so, being conscious of the fact that is just NOT genuine if they say it then…I’d rather have nobody saying anything nice to me about my writing at all. I’d rather have real friends enjoying reading my stories and reading about my experiences without ever saying anything to it about me than fake friends who just say it so I shut the hell up about it, so I stop being so full of myself.

In my opinion, being a good writer means being good at articulating yourself (with mistakes allowed, because we’re all human and make mistakes, after all), having just the right ideas and words when you put something down, but also, and that’s even more important, it means being able to acknowledge other writers. Being able to push them into developing more motivation by encouraging them (in a genuine, honest way without just “sugarcoating” because you’re friends), not just showing them their flaws.

Being a good writer means having respect for other writers, instead of putting them down because you think you’re better. It may be true at times, that one writer is better than the other, and maybe both of them even know that. But that does not diminish the fact that respect and decency is the right way in this world. You never know why people write, after all, and what it means to them. Freedom, therapy, fun, whatever, it doesn’t matter. No single writer is actually better than another one.

They’re just different.

And that’s freedom of writing for me.

 

Book Review: Markus Zusak – “The Book Thief”

It is 1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier, and will become busier still.
Liesel Meminger is a foster girl living outside of Munich, who scratches out a meager existence for herself by stealing when she encounters something she can’t resist–books. With the help of her accordion-playing foster father, she learns to read and shares her stolen books with her neighbors during bombing raids as well as with the Jewish man hidden in her basement. (Source: amazon.com)

I took quite a while for me to read this book. Since the movie came out in the theatres,  I was really interested in reading it, but once I read its description, standing in my local bookstore, I put it down again.

Because it was written by “death”.

Of course I know it’s not really written by “death”, he’s only the narrator, but still, I felt controversal to give it a shot, although the story behind the life of Liesel Meminger – The Third Reich, World War II, the Holocaust – are the three history subjects that I’d never refuse to read about, no matter what. So by pure accident I got hold of a free version of it on my Kindle and decided I had nothing to lose. One thing led to another and I only needed less than two days to finish it (I’m really craving for books recently!).

My conclusion: it was worth it. At first, I had real difficulties to find my own way into the kind of narration that I faced in this book, and halfway through the first 5 pages, I wanted to give up again. But my will to find out if the narration changes, if maybe “death” gives it into the hands of Liesel Meminger, the main character, kept me going. And I’m glad it did.

I love how the reader follows Liesel from scratch; from the moment she can’t even read a single word, to the end, where she writes an entire book about herself. It’s interesting to see her learning new words and expressions every day, just by sitting with her foster-father during every night (that she can’t sleep because nightmares of her dead brother are haunting her), reading with her. It’s like the story holds up some kind of mirror to every reader that follows it, because who can’t remember themselves starting to read in (or in my case, before) school? And who doesn’t look back to it with a shy smile on their faces when they remember their first few tries, sometimes failing miserably, but never giving up? Well, I do remember my first steps, and even if mine never have happened in such a difficult environment as Liesel’s first steps, I can somewhat relate to her. Reading becomes her escape, and the wish to write becomes kind of her lifegoal, the thing that keeps her going. It seems like the narrator (“death”, remember?) draws the reader in, and while Liesel forgets all the horrors of the Nazi-Regime whenever she feels the kick after having stolen a book or reading in the dark basement to Max, the Jew she and her foster-parents have hidden, it almost seems like the reader of “The Book Thief” can himself forget the outside world. A book all about the love to books. Brilliant.

One of the most loveable characters in this book for me was definitely Liesel’s best friend, Rudi Steiner. He is a crazy young boy who’s desperately and (not so) secretly in love with Liesel, and tries to get her to kiss him whenever there is an opportunity (mostly, when he has done something heroic for her or for himself, something he can be admired for). I actually admire him for his attitude, because although he probably knows that Liesel will never kiss him (when you’re 11/12, boys are generally “Ugh” to every girl, I guess, at least in the old days), he never loses his spirit. Plus, he stands by her side through good and bad times, even accompanies her on more than just one “Book Thief” trip. For me, he sums up what a best friend is all about, no matter what. And I think in the dark times of 1939 until 1943, a best friend like him was even more needed than in any peaceful time before or after.

What the book does with Hans Hubermann, Liesel’s foster-father, is simply described as beautiful. He’s an opponent of the Nazi-Regime, but he does his best to keep his family, and – especially, – Liesel safe. With his neverending will to play his accordion to her, to stay up every night to read for and with her, he not only keeps her alive in some way (by making her fall in love with words, reading and at last, writing, with the latter one literally saving her life), but also lets her being the happy girl she should be. With him being the positive spirit in her life, apart from Rudi, the reader never feels that Liesel ever loses faith in life and all it has to give. Even when “death” creeps into her life more and more and in the end, takes everything she believes in.

The way Zusak has written the book has – as I said at the beginning of this blog, – first made it weird to find my way into it and its story, no matter how interesting the history behind it is. Now that I have finished, I almost feel like Liesel during her first steps in learning to read: everything seems confusing, words make no sense, and you just can’t get your head around things and words. But as the story goes on, you find your own way right into it, and that is what makes it impossible to put this book away for long. Especially with the hints that “death” throws in every now and then, that spoilers you but also makes you want to go on, to know how these “spoilers” happen and turn out in the end. And I have to admit, while reading, quite a few times I even forgot that the narrator was “death”, because I breathed the story in, and I stopped reading between the lines. Of course, there are a lot of times where “death” mentions his work, what he does and has to do, and how he goes on and on with what he does. But it almost makes him human, it makes you think of him like someone like you and me, and you actually can feel some kind of empathy for him, for the struggle that goes on behind his own mind.

My resumé: Markus Zusak has done a stroke of genius here, with approaching a storyline from a completely different angle than other authors, from the view of a person that isn’t even a person, but, in some way, is a person, after all. I say it again:

Brilliant.