“Laura Wiess boldly goes where other writers fear to tread” (A. M. Jenkins, author of Damage and Out of Order) in these splendid and unforgettable must-read novels…
LEFTOVERS
“Like her equally gripping debut (Such a Pretty Girl), Wiess’s suspense story delivers an outsize jolt of adrenaline…. Wiess’s clear insight…and her layered storytelling bump up the ‘best friends against the world’ theme to a much more challenging playing field.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The climax is explosive, but it’s the feisty heroines who will resonate more.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A riveting story…. I love this book.”
—Laura Fitzgerald, author of Veil of Roses
“Dramatic and disturbing…a captivating book that will keep you turning the pages.”
—TeensReadToo.com
“Reading Blair and Ardith’s story is like scratching a mosquito bite—you can’t stop scratching until it bleeds. And as much as it hurts, you won’t be able to put Leftovers down until you finish it.”
—Lyn Seippel, Bookloons.com
Critics and authors adore SUCH A PRETTY GIRL Chosen as one of the ALA’s 2008 Best Books for Young Adults and 2008 YALSA Quick Picks for Reluctant Readers
“Brilliance comes in a small package. Such a Pretty Girl is deep and ravishing, dark and true. In the character of Meredith, Laura Wiess has created a girl to walk alongside Harper Lee’s Scout and J. D. Salinger’s Phoebe. Read this novel, and you will be changed forever.”
—New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice
“Such a Pretty Girl hooked me on page one and Laura Wiess’s masterful prose kept me turning the pages. This is the first book in a very long time that made me say, ‘Wish I’d written this.’”
—Ellen Hopkins, New York Times bestselling author of Identical
“Wiess has created a spunky heroine—tough, darkly humorous, yet achingly vulnerable…. A nail biter of an ending. [A] gutsy and effective thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“[A] gritty, terrifying novel about a father’s abuse of power and trust…. A page-turner that ultimately sends a startling message of empowerment…extremely satisfying.”
—Booklist
“Powerful…. Mature teens who enjoy realistic fiction with an edge will devour it.”
—VOYA
“Strikes just the right balance between hope and despair, and Meredith’s will to survive and ability to take action in the face of her terror are an inspiration.”
—KLIATT
“Such a Pretty Girl is a riveting novel and Meredith is a wholly original creation: a funny, wise, vulnerable girl with the heart of a hero and the courage of a warrior. This gut-wrenching story will stay with you long after you finish the last page.”
—Lisa Tucker, author of The Cure for Modern Life
“Beautifully written and painfully real. Laura Wiess has crafted a gripping story that is heart-rending—and important, with a capital ‘I.’”
—New York Times bestselling author Barbara Delinsky
“Gritty yet poetic, gut-churning yet uplifting—a compelling, one-of-a-kind read.”
—A. M. Jenkins, author of Damage and Out of Order
“So suspenseful you’ll wish you’d taken a speed-reading course. But slow down, because to rush would mean missing Laura Wiess’s wonderfully precise language, her remarkable access to Meredith’s darkest emotions, and a shocker of an ending, which you’ll want to read twice.”
—Tara Altebrando, author of What Happens Here
“Spellbinding…. We need more characters like Meredith in our world and more authors like Wiess to spin them into heartbreaking, enchanting heroines.”
—TeenVoices
Also by Laura Wiess
Leftovers
Such a Pretty Girl
Available from MTV Books
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Laura Battyanyi Wiess
MTV Music Television and all related titles, logos, and characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wiess, Laura
How it ends / Laura Wiess.—1st MTV Books/Pocket Books trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Hanna learns about life, love, happiness, and pain when she finally starts dating the boy she has had a long-time crush on, and when she discovers the complicated truth about her beloved Gran.
[1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 4. Old age—Fiction. 5. Love—Fiction. 6. Country life—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W6372Ho 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2009012785
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-6422-8
ISBN-10: 1-4391-6422-3
Visit us on the Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
For
David C. Gold,
who knows that
a dream goes on forever.
Acknowledgments
I’ve said it before but it still holds true: When it comes to support, guidance and insight, I could get no luckier than with my agent Barry Goldblatt and my editor Jennifer Heddle. Thank you both for everything.
I owe a lovely debt of gratitude to Louise Burke, Anthony Ziccardi, Jacob Hoye, Lisa Litwack, Regina Starace, Johanna Farrand, John Paul Jones, Erica Feldon and Kerrie Loyd at Simon & Schuster/MTV Books for their hard work, enthusiasm and expertise.
Heartfelt thanks to Stewart Russell, and to Lou, Nancy, Bud, Connie, Jess, and Jake Winters, who not only made me welcome and taught me how to build a respectable fire, but generously continue to share their knowledge, humor and lives with this former flatlander.
Sincere thanks to the Wiess family, Pat Schaal, Barbara Gauch, Bonnie Verrico, A. M. Jenkins, Shelley Sykes, and Dave Gold for the love, friendship and support.
I’m very grateful for the privilege of having known Carol Bon, Florence Sellner and Julia Battyanyi, strong, uncommon women who left their own indelible imprints on this author.
The deepest curtsy, given with love, goes home to Bill and Barbara Battyanyi, Suzanne Dial, Paul Pinaha and Scott Battyanyi for always believing in me, no matter what.
“I would not willingly peel back the scar tissue protecting the deepest chambers of my heart and reveal the bruised hollows pooled with the blood of old wounds—the terror comes just thinking about it—but now, facing darkness I am left with no choice.
I love you, and because of that I am going to try and raise the dead.”
—Louise Bell Closson, How It Ends
Contents
The Beginning of the End And they all lived happily ever after…
Chapter 1 Hanna
Chapter 2 Helen
Chapter 3 Hanna
Chapter 4 Helen
Cha
pter 5 Hanna
Chapter 6 Helen
Chapter 7 Hanna
Chapter 8 Helen
Chapter 9 Hanna
Chapter 10 Hanna
Chapter 11 Helen
Chapter 12 Hanna
Chapter 13 Helen
Chapter 14 Hanna
Chapter 15 Hanna
Chapter 16 Hanna
Chapter 17 Helen
Chapter 18 Hanna
Chapter 19 Helen
Chapter 20 Hanna
Chapter 21 Hanna
Chapter 22 Helen
Chapter 23 Hanna
Chapter 24 Hanna
Chapter 25 Hanna
Chapter 26 Hanna
How It Ends A Love Story
Chapter 27 Hanna
Chapter 28 Hanna
Chapter 29 Hanna
How It Ends
Chapter 30 Hanna
How It Ends
All That Remains
Chapter 31 Hanna
Winter
Ever After…
The Beginning of the End
And they all lived happily ever after…
It happened painfully and without warning, this sudden turning of the heart.
It happened as you stood so small and stoic beside me in the driveway, waving as your mother pulled away in her car and then your father in his, your thin, sun-browned shoulders squared, your chin up and your dark gaze riveted to their leaving, oblivious to the clean morning breeze, to shy Serepta, the youngest of the strays, meowing and twining round your bare ankles, and the glittering pink and gold beads of your new Princess Barbie bracelet rattling a hollow farewell.
Your wave never faltered, Hanna, not even after those cars disappeared around the wooded bend and left you behind, watching and waiting as if certain the steadfast devotion in your farewell would somehow guarantee their return.
But it didn’t, it couldn’t, and the road remained deserted, each empty passing second wilting and finally stilling your faithful, fluttering hand.
“Well,” I said briskly, picking up your Princess Jasmine overnight bag. “I think it’s time for some chocolate chip pancakes. What do you say?”
“My stomach hurts,” you mumbled, fingering your sparkly bracelet.
“It’ll feel better with pancakes in it,” I said.
“Grandma Helen?” You looked up, chin quivering and doe eyes stricken with tears. “This is not a good happily ever after. I’m t-t-too sad.”
It was then, Hanna, as I gazed into your forlorn little five-year-old face that fierce longing surged and, catching me off guard, wrenched free.
You sidled close and touched my hand. “Are you going away, too?”
“Oh, sweetheart, no,” I said, and in that heartbeat the bond was formed, the promise made, and the emptiness inside of me was filled with the rush to comfort and protect, to earn this trust you put in me, me, no blood relation, the Grandma Helen a courtesy title given by your parents to the childless lady in the neighboring farmhouse with a passion for books, stray cats, and hungry deer, who fed the birds and loved a creaky old man named Lon who sang Beatles’ songs and still had shoulders strong enough for a little girl’s piggyback rides. “No, Hanna. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”
You sniffled. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” I said, gently swinging your hand. “Come on, let’s go find us some breakfast.” I led you across the thick grass still glistening with dew, under the smooth gray branches of the copper beech tree, and into the little strip of woods that signaled the end of your property and the beginning of mine.
“I think I might like pancakes,” you offered, flip-flops slapping as you padded along the smooth pine-needle carpet, Serepta swatting playfully at your heels. “Hey, when we get to the meadow can we take the deer path past the pond?”
“Absolutely,” I said and paused to lift you over a fallen hemlock.
“Look,” you said, eyeing a good-sized hole in the mossy, crumbling trunk. “A lion might live there.”
“Or a skunk or a raccoon. They’re wild, so don’t ever try to pet them, but they won’t hurt you if you just let them be. Live and let live, Hanna.” I took your hand, leading you out of the tree line and into the meadow. “One deer path, coming up.” It was almost too painful, this giddy joy at sharing the everyday miracles in my world and the solemn way you soaked it all up as we stopped to consider the zigzag flight of an iridescent dragonfly, the chirp of a startled chipmunk, and the hoofprint pressed in the mud at the edge of the pond.
“Do wild horses take the deer path, too?” you said, pulling free and crouching to study the honeybees buzzing over great drifts of violets and white clover.
“Not anymore,” I said. “They might have, though, a long, long time ago.”
“Back when you were a little girl?” you said, shading your eyes and squinting up at me.
“It’s possible,” I said, lips twitching.
“Oh.” You paused a minute, absently petting the cat, and then picked three violets. “You know what, Grandma Helen? I think when you were little, and your mommy and daddy went away and left you, you were sad and cried, and they came back and made pancakes with lots of syrup and you all lived happily ever after again, right?”
And it was then, with a crown of sunlight shimmering in your silky brown hair, the hawk circling high overhead, and your hand reaching up to offer me the tiny bouquet, that I said, “Right,” and told you the first of so many terrible lies.
You practically lived with us that summer while your parents—struggling, bewildered, and unhappy—tried to figure out why the life they’d planned wasn’t the one they ended up with.
It was very peaceful here then—Lon and I hadn’t yet sold that section of acreage on the other side to that liar who said he loved the country and then, once he owned the property, tried to destroy every living thing on it, so this stretch of road was just my house and yours, meadows and woods. Sound carried far in the darkness, Hanna, and in the daylight, too, so when bitter disappointment got the best of your parents and echoed out over the clearing, I would find some reason to call and invite you over just to get you out of the battle zone.
I have to give them credit for catching on quickly and trying to spare you the worst of it, though, because after my first few phone calls, the roles reversed and more often than not it would be your mother calling and asking if you could visit me for a while.
I always said yes, of course, because I could hear how much it cost her to ask, but even more than that, the sight of you trudging through the field grass toward my back door, whether you were smiling and stuffing your pockets with acorns or plodding along like you didn’t have a friend in the world, filled my heart like nothing else.
I would grab some cookies and hurry down the deer path to meet you, Serepta and any number of other strays following along. The moment you saw me your face would light up, and I would smile and wave because truly, is there anything as wonderful as feeling safe and loved?
I gave that to you, Hanna, but make no mistake: You gave it to me, too.
We would meet under the big old catalpa tree by the pond and, if you were especially blue, would sit side by side on the old wooden bench in the flickering shade of those huge, heart-shaped leaves. Sooner or later, if I waited long enough, you would reveal yourself in questions.
More often, though, you would ask me to tell you stories about when I was a little girl. The first time you did this I panicked and immediately let go of your hand. You didn’t notice my shocked withdrawal; you were too busy rattling the knob of a door I had sealed shut years ago, asking if I was always good or if I ever got into trouble, how I got punished, if I’d had my own bedroom, lots of friends to play with, and if I’d hated peas just like you did.
Your bright chatter gave me time to recover, to breathe deep and force myself to stop and think instead of turn and hurry away. That was the closest I ever came to leaving you and I woul
d have if I was still only your babysitter, would have made some excuse to your parents about aching bones or being too busy to watch you and disappeared from your life, but I wasn’t just Mrs. Schoenmaker anymore, I was your Grandma Helen and there was a price to pay for keeping that title.
So while I could never tell you the truth, the more I listened, the more I realized I didn’t have to. You weren’t probing for secrets or judging me; no, all you wanted were happily ever after tales to blunt the sharp edges of your own uncertain days, so I wove you stories of an idyllic childhood with stern but kind parents and loyal, mischievous best friends, of getting into trouble and the crafty ways we wiggled out of it.
“You never got into trouble?” you said, wide-eyed.
“Well, maybe sometimes, but if you look hard enough, there’s always a way to get out of it or around it.” I stopped but you begged for more, held out your cupped hands, and so I obliged, filling them with sunny days romping at my grandparents’ farm, climbing trees, and saving baby animals, of the fun I’d had in school, glorious family Thanksgivings, and fuzzy little tuxedo kittens in my stocking on Christmas mornings.
I told these lies and you soaked up every word, eyes glowing and face rapt as if you were there, too, as if we were equal in age and embarking on those merry adventures together.
My house became your second home, and even after your parents reconciled and you didn’t need to be sent to me anymore, you still came regularly because you wanted to, because I made sure there was always something fun to do or read or talk about, something good to eat, interesting questions to ask, and satisfying answers to find.