“I should go.” I kissed Boz on the cheek, which he did not expect. “Wish me luck.”
“Godspeed, Holly,” he said, smiling again, and then he vanished into thin air.
And so it happened that the next morning, December the twenty-ninth, at precisely 9:00 a.m., I was standing on the corner of Lexington and 116th Street, listening to a homeless man play the saxophone.
All I had to do was wait.
And wait.
At exactly 9:03 (which felt like it took for freaking ever), up the street strolled Ethan Winters II. Ethan’s dad. He was wearing a gray wool coat and a red plaid scarf, and he looked just how I remembered—like an older, happier version of Ethan. He was whistling as he walked. And then he stopped and listened to the homeless guy play.
“How’s it going, Steve?” he asked after a minute.
“Same old, same old,” the sax player replied. “It’s been cold, though. I’m hoping not to freeze to death.”
“You should head over to the Cecil,” Ethan’s dad said. “They’ll have a bed for you there. You can take a cab on me.” He gave the man a twenty, and Steve said, “Thank you much, sir. I just might.”
“Stay warm.” Ethan’s dad smiled. Then he started off down Lexington.
It was time for me to do something. Right here. Right now.
“Wait,” I called. “Please, um, sir, can you help me?”
Ethan’s dad stopped immediately. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing’s wrong,” I explained quickly. “It’s just, I’m trying to find the Bikram East Yoga Center? It was supposed to be on 116th Street, but I couldn’t find it. I have a terrible sense of direction.”
It was a lame excuse, I’ll admit, but it was the best I could think up on short notice. Plus, I really was wanting to get in some yoga later. I liked yoga when it didn’t literally kill me.
“Sure,” Mr. Winters said. “I haven’t heard of that place, but I can look it up for you.” He took out his phone and messed with it for a minute. “Yes, here it is. It’s on 116th, but back that way, toward Madison. You must have passed it.”
I darted a glance at my watch: 9:06. I still couldn’t let him go onto Lexington, just in case. “Back that way?” I frowned. “What side of the street? Are you sure?”
He checked his phone again. “Left. It should be two blocks, on the left.” He leaned out to look. “It’s that awning there that reads BEYC?”
“Well, now I feel stupid. Thanks. I don’t know how I could have missed that.”
The homeless guy was eyeing me strangely. I kept my attention on Ethan’s dad. I had to keep stalling him. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
He smiled. “I have one of those faces, I’m afraid.”
“Me too,” I said, nodding. “Everybody always thinks they know me. But, really, I think we might have met before. Do you have kids that I might know?”
“I have a daughter about your age, actually,” he answered. “I bet you’d remember if you’d met her. Her name is—”
“Jack,” I finished for him.
“Yes.” His smile widened. “Jacqueline, but it’s always been Jack, ever since my little boy couldn’t pronounce her name. We tried to get her to go back to Jackie once, and that did not work out. She’s always known her mind, that kid. But I love her for that.”
“I like Jack. She’s amazing. We, uh, go to school together.”
“Oh, you’re at New Utrecht?”
I smiled and nodded. “She likes art, right?”
“Yes, she’s always sculpting something or cutting stuff up and reassembling it. It drives my wife a little crazy, but we try to understand that it’s her artistic soul that needs feeding.”
“That’s cool of you,” I said. “Taking an interest.”
“What are you interested in?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” Which was the truth. I was still coming to terms with the idea that I was going to have an actual future. “I used to be into fashion, but I’ve broadened my horizons now. Who knows?”
“Well, you’re young,” he said. “You have time to figure it out.”
“Exactly.” I checked my watch again: 9:08.
He was in the clear now. I breathed out a sigh.
“Well, say hi to Jack from me,” I said.
“Okay. I will.”
He was still standing there, like he was waiting for something. “But to do that, I’d have to know your name?”
“Oh. Right. My name. My name is Victoria. Victoria Scott,” I said.
“Victoria Scott. I’ll remember.”
“Thanks for your help with the yoga situation.”
“No problem. See you around, Victoria.”
And then he was off. I walked the other way for a minute, and then ran back to check on him. He’d made it safely all the way down Lexington and disappeared into a building. After a minute I saw a guy in a hard hat come out onto the sidewalk and bend over to pick something up.
A hammer.
I may have done a little happy dance right there in the street. For Ethan. For the future he might have now. And then I might have cried a little, too.
“Girl, you’ve got something going on,” said the homeless guy. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s something good, I think.”
“It’s very good,” I agreed. “Hey, come with me, okay?”
His eyes were instantly wary. “I thought you said you had to go to yoga. What is that, stretching?”
“Yes. Stretching. Lots of good stretching. But I want to introduce you to someone first. Someone who I think you’re really going to want to meet at the London NYC Hotel.”
“I don’t know anybody at a hotel,” he said.
“Trust me. You’ll know her.”
He packed up his saxophone and let me help him to his feet. We walked a few steps, and then he stopped and touched my arm.
“Hey, you’re not an angel, are you?” he asked me.
I smiled. “Maybe I’m something like that today.”
So that’s the story of my afterlife, and now the real story, the one involving my actual life, has finally begun. And if you’re wondering if I changed—if I really and truly became a better person than I was in the beginning—I’ll tell you that I have good days and bad ones, of course, like everybody else, but I’m growing. I’ll get there.
I still have dreams about New York sometimes, and I miss the weirdest stuff, like the sound of neighbor lady’s TV and cereal for dinner and the convenience of a Hoodie that makes a person invisible. But I have an excellent life, and I try to be as good a friend, as good a daughter, and as good a person as it’s possible for me to be.
I can tell some of you want to be upset because this is a story where the girl doesn’t end up with the hot guy. You were shipping me and Ethan. I get it. I do. I’ll always think about him, for the rest of my life and probably beyond it, about those few months that didn’t happen for anyone but me. I miss him. I love him. But love doesn’t always have to be about the happy ending. Love can be about beginnings, too.
Anyway, I didn’t see the people from Project Scrooge again, but sometimes I feel like someone’s watching me, and not just watching, but looking down on me fondly and wishing me the best, especially when December rolls around. I don’t hate Christmas anymore, for obvious reasons. I always get a little thrill when that time of year arrives, and everyone starts decorating and hustling and bustling around, getting ready to enjoy not just the holiday but one another. Because that’s what it’s all about, right? Connection. Togetherness. Love.
Plus, I always know that there are people hard at work trying to make this world a better place through this one night on the twenty-fifth of December. Which makes me feel like the world is a better place, every single year.
And now I’m going to say it—so listen up, because I’m only going to say it this one time. Because I think you deserve the proper send-off.
Here it goes:
God bless us, every one.
Which I think means that Grant owes me a twenty.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK IS THE PRODUCT of many individuals working behind the scenes (just like the employees of Project Scrooge!), all trying to bring this particularly bratty Ebenezer’s story to the happiest possible ending. I have so very many people to thank:
My unstoppable team at HarperTeen, starting with Erica Sussman, my brilliant and insightful editor, who spent so much time on the phone with me discussing Holly and her world. (You’re always right. It’s kind of annoying. But you’re right.) Also, a huge thank you to Stephanie Stein, who is the best Stephanie. Also a big thanks to Elizabeth Ward in marketing; Gina Rizzo, my rocking publicist; Hazel Lam, who designed this knockout cover; and my copy editor, Alexandra Rakaczki.
Katherine Fausset, my agent. You’re a rock star. Thanks for always having my back.
Jolyn Dunn, my Bonneville High School theater teacher, who cast me as Fan in A Christmas Carol all those years ago and instilled my ever-burning love for poor old Mr. Scrooge.
Leslie Hammond, who’s been a friend ever since we both played elves in another Christmas play—Reckless!—at the College of Idaho. Thanks for helping me wrestle with this novel for the past two years. Your insights were so helpful, and your excitement about Holly and her story was so encouraging.
My Boise friends: Amy Yowell, who’s the greatest friend and cheerleader in the whole world; Wendy Johnston, who made me a great Christmas mix tape to inspire me when I was working on the book in the middle of July; and Lindsey Hunt, who always wants me to read my stuff to her.
My Janies: Brodi Ashton and Jodi Meadows. It’s awfully hard to write a book without you two, but even when we’re not working on the same project, you’re so supportive and inspirational and fun. Thanks for talking through plot with me and for letting me drag you over the bumpiest cobblestone road ever (with our suitcases!) to visit the Charles Dickens Museum in London.
Victoria Scott, for letting me steal your name. You’re the best.
My students. Thank you for reinvigorating my love of teaching, for your hard work, for your good writing, and for always being excited to hear about how this book was coming along.
My mom, Carol Ware, and her husband, Jack. For all the immeasurable ways you support me and lift me up, both as a writer and as a person.
My dad, Rodney Hand, and his wife, Julie. For always believing I can do what I set my mind to. And for taking the kids on long ATV rides so I could work.
Will and Maddie, the little people. Thanks for being so patient with this never-ending process of writing books. And thank you for still wanting me to snuggle and tell you stories at the end of the day. I’m so excited that you’re learning to read, so someday I can tell this story to you.
Mr. Dickens. You’re one of the Ghosts, now, but even so, you continue to inspire me, not only as a writer, but as a writer who tried to make a real difference in this troubled world. You wanted people to see as Scrooge saw, so that they might change as Scrooge changed. I love you for that. And I hope my story can haunt my readers half so pleasantly as yours.
Speaking of my readers—thank you, thank you, with all my heart, thank you. Over the years you have been the best support and most unexpected friends. Bless you, every one!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CYNTHIA HAND is the New York Times bestselling author of several books for teens, including the Unearthly trilogy, the contemporary novel The Last Time We Say Goodbye, and the historical comedy My Lady Jane. Before turning to writing for young adults, she studied literary fiction, and earned both an MFA and a PhD in fiction writing. She currently resides in Boise, Idaho, with her two kids, two cats, and a rambunctious puppy. Her love for Charles Dickens started in ninth grade when she played Fan in her high school’s production of A Christmas Carol. Find out more at cynthiahandbooks.com
ALSO BY CYNTHIA HAND
UNEARTHLY
HALLOWED
BOUNDLESS
RADIANT: AN UNEARTHLY NOVELLA
(available as an ebook only)
THE LAST TIME WE SAY GOODBYE
MY LADY JANE
(with Brodi Ashton and Jodi Meadows)
COPYRIGHT
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in the USA in 2017
by HarperTeen, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2017
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Cynthia Hand 2017
The right of Cynthia Hand to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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ISBN 978 1 4607 5428 3 (paperback)
ISBN 978 1 4607 0880 4 (ebook)
Cover design by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio
Cover images: girl by Elisabeth Ansley / Trevillion Images; globe by Ruth Black, stocksy.com/791737; all other images by shutterstock.com
Cynthia Hand, The Afterlife of Holly Chase
(Series: # )
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