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This Adventure Ends
By Emma Mills Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 2016 Emma Mills
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62779-936-2
CHAPTER 1
My immediate priority is air.
Bree has dragged me to a house party, and the place is too warm. Everything is a little too close.
I don't like being in a stranger's house at the best of times. Seeing the pictures on someone else's fridge, the knickknacks on their mantel, whether or not their toilet-paper roll goes over or under ... that stuff is personal. To be so outside of it, and yet still privy to it, feels like some kind of a violation.
I can't say this to Bree. So I just listen in on one more conversation about whether Jen and Asher from calculus are finally "official" ("Do they need to be notarized?" I ask, and no one laughs), and then I make my way to the kitchen to escape out the back door.
Unfortunately, escape is barred.
"It's not a big deal," this kid is saying, pitching his voice over the thrum of the room. Clearly it is a big deal, because a ring of onlookers has formed around him. It's that sort of Shakespearean chorus that pops up at parties like this, to observe and cast judgment and report back to the masses later.
I'm only three weeks in at Grove County High School, but I recognize the speaker from my AP biology class. His name is Mason, and he sits at the lab bench in front of mine.
I also recognize him from the pages of my father's novels. In a few short years, Mason could be the sheriff's son who backhands the preacher's daughter, or the ex–high school quarterback hell-bent on avenging some romantic slight. Guys like him were a dime a dozen in Everett Finch's world, and they usually died in a fire.
"She doesn't want to talk to you," the guy standing directly across from Mason says.
"And how the hell do you know that? Twin magic? When she's hit on, you feel it, too?"
The guy doesn't reply, but there is this look in his eyes, a quiet rage that I wouldn't have messed with had I been Mason.
"Really, you should be thanking me," Mason continues. "I don't think she's a lost cause. I could help her turn shit around."
Mason steps into the other guy's space, eliciting a quiet but firm "Don't."
"Or what?"
The guy doesn't respond.
"Or what?" Mason repeats, and steps even closer. In different circumstances, they'd look for all the world like they were about to kiss. Mason's lips curve upward into a smile. "Is this getting to you? Are you wired wrong, too?"
"Don't" is all he says again.
"Come on, it's not like you're going to hit me. You want to know how I know?" When the guy doesn't answer, Mason reaches out and puts his hands on either side of the guy's head, forcing it up and down in a nod. "Yes, Mason, I want to know." And then he moves one hand to the guy's face, smushing his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. "'Cause you're a nice fucking guy, Fuller." He squeezes with each word.
The guy still doesn't move, and maybe Mason is right — maybe he won't hit him. Maybe he's too solid to respond.
But I'm not.
"Sorry," I say, angling through the people in front of me. "I'm sorry. So sorry. Don't mean to interrupt. It's just ... are you for fucking serious?"
Mason looks at me, his hand still grasping the guy's face. Surprise cuts through his smirk. A girl is volunteering to talk to him, I think, and in that moment, I know which tack to use.
So I tamp down the outrage and manage something like a smile as I reach out and close my fingers loosely around Mason's wrist. A soft touch. He lets me guide his hand away without protest.
"I mean ... these hands aren't really meant for that kind of thing, are they?"
His eyes track me as I lace my fingers together with his.
"These hands are for ... for caressing," I continue. "For stroking, even."
"Oh yeah?" Mason says with a dumb little smile. His target just stands there, altogether forgotten.
"Yeah," I say. "Yourself. In front of the TV. Alone. Every night."
Mason doesn't get it right away, but there's a hoot from the crowd and a few barely suppressed guffaws.
"If nothing else, you can at least use them to grasp for intelligence, or like, some semblance of human decency."
The crowd reaction amps up, like a sitcom soundtrack. Mason wrenches his hand out of mine.
"What's your problem?" he says.
"Your face," I reply, because that's what my sister, Laney, would say.
"Fuck you," he says, but he's lost control of the room. The chorus is already buzzing. "Fuck this." He smiles with too much teeth. "Got yourself a guard dog, huh, Fuller? Emphasis on dog." Like this will somehow hurt my feelings. But that's assuming I have them in the first place.
When I don't react, Mason shakes his head and retreats, the chorus folding in around us. I look back to where the guy had been standing, but he's already headed out the back door.
Bree appears at my elbow, clutching a plastic cup. Her cheeks are red, and she is grinning. "Geez. That was — was that a New York thing? Do they teach you that kind of stuff there?"
Yes. Here is your MetroCard, and this is how you publicly dismantle insufferable dicks.
"It was a person thing. That guy was an ass."
She shakes her head, still grinning. "Geez."
"What?"
"Gabe Fuller." She gestures in the direction of the guy's retreat. "You stepped in for freaking Gabe Fuller."
"Yeah," I say, because I don't how to respond to that.
A kid I vaguely recognize from my lit class comes up then, holding his hand up for a high five.
"That was hilarious," he says.
I slap his palm, but suddenly it's too close in there again, too much, so I excuse myself and make my way to the door.
It's quieter outside. There's just the low hum of crickets and the soft smack of a couple making out on the porch swing. The chains attaching the swing to the ceiling rattle as she adjusts, he adjusts. One of them sighs, a soft little sound.
I ignore them, bracing my hands against the railing. The night air hangs thick with late-summer humidity, but a few deep breaths still put me right.
Some scraggly trees populate the backyard, and there's an attempt at a garden — a trellis hung with vines, a couple of thorny-looking bushes. The ground is a study in that patchy North Florida grass, which is mostly just sand and a thick coating of live oak leaves. The leaves shine in the light from the motion-sensor bulb on the garage. That same light throws two figures at the end of the yard into stark relief.
I can't hear them from where I stand. Rationally, I know it's none of my business. But I step off the porch anyway and move across the yard toward them.
"I told you we shouldn't have gone to a non-Frank-sanctioned party," the girl is saying as I near. I'm shielded a bit by the shadow of the trellis.
"Why were you even talking to him?"
"He talked to me first. I'm not just going to ignore another human being. We can't all stare through people, Gabe."
"Yeah, well, try. Look at them, and instead of seeing them, see whatever's behind them. And then ignore that, too."
"Yeah, that's a super healthy approach. Super great social skills."
"Mason Pierce doesn't deserve your social skills. He doesn't deserve the hair in your shower drain."
"Who does deserve the hair in my shower drain? Should I start mailing it to Tash? Do you want me to save you some?"
"I swear to God —"
The end of that oath never comes, because it's then they realize I'm there.
Somehow at the sight of me, the guy — Gabe — looks angrier than before. It's not that quiet-rage burn, but more of an outward hostility.
The girl, on the other hand, smiles wide. It lights up her face. "Hey. It's you."
It's such a strange thing to say — like somehow I was expected — that all I can do is nod. "It's me."
"I didn't need you to do that," Gabe says.
"Thank you," the girl amends, "is what he's trying to say."
"I didn't need you to do that," he repeats, and for some reason, his irritation irks me. I did a thing. Stepped in. Dismantled a bully. I could've gone on and done nothing, like the rest of fucking Solo Cup nation in there. "I didn't need anyone's help. Everything was under control."
"So the part where he plied your face like Play-Doh was a critical step in your plan?"
The girl snorts, and Gabe shoots her a glare.
"I was fine," he says tightly. "Next time, don't help."
I nod. "Okay. Sure." But I am incapable of leaving it at that. "'Cause if this world needs anything, it's more passive witnesses to injustice, right? The U.N. should adopt that model. Amnesty International. Forget the barbed-wire candle — their symbol should just be like a guy leaning against a wall with his arms folded and a speech bubble that says 'Want to help? Next time, don't.' Someone should really get the number for the Gates Foundation and let them know."
"That's not what I'm —" Gabe begins, but once I start, it's kind of hard to stop.
"Hey, I know scientists are super busy trying to find cures for diseases and stuff, but maybe at this point in time they should just try not doing that —"
"I didn't say —"
"Humanitarian aid workers," I call out, like the yard is full of them. "Lay down your instruments of change, because 'Don't help' is the societal model we're going with now —"
"Okay," he says loudly. "Okay, fine, yes, I'm sorry. Thank you. For helping. Thanks. Please just stop."
The girl bursts out laughing. Gabe glares at her.
"Sorry," she says. "Just ... your face. God. So good." She points at me. "You're great. You're staying. We're keeping you."
Gabe looks at her and then at me, and for a second I think he might laugh, too. His lips twitch, at least, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up a little as he looks away. It's almost as if something has been defused inside him. Like the right wire has been cut.
"Who are you again?" he says.
"Sloane," I reply. "Who are you?"
"Gabe. Fuller. This is Vera." He waves a hand at the girl. Framed in the light from the garage, I can see they favor each other — similar in the line of the nose and the curve of the lips. Twin magic, Mason had said. Two pairs of dark eyes look out from under thick lashes, framed by the kind of eyebrows that are equal parts impressive and intimidating.
"Nice to meet you," Vera says, and nudges Gabe. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah," he says. And then to Vera: "I'm going to go. Are you going to ride with Aubrey, or ..."
"No, I'll go with you. Do you want a ride, Sloane?"
"That's okay, I drove somebody."
"Okay. Well." Vera looks to Gabe, who is now staring in the direction of the garage. "Thanks again."
"No problem. I'm here all week."
"You're vacationing?" She looks mildly alarmed.
"No. No, it's just ... one of those things comedians say? 'I'm here all week' ... 'Tip your waitress.'"
Vera grins. "I get it. You're funny." She glances at Gabe again, but he doesn't give confirmation. His jaw is firmly set once more. "See you at school, I guess?"
"Sure. I'll be the one who looks like me."
She laughs, and it's weirdly gratifying. I haven't had such a receptive audience in a long time. Laney's only nine, but she knows all my dumb jokes by now.
Casting one last smile at me, Vera grabs Gabe's arm and leads him toward the house, and I am alone once more.
Except for the couple making out on the porch swing, I think, until I look back and see that they, too, have left. Maybe they fled during my humanitarian-aid-workers speech.
I return to the porch and settle down on the vacated swing. It creaks as I rock back and forth. The chains look like they probably won't withstand many more vigorous make-out sessions.
I check my phone. Nine thirty-four. I think my mom will be satisfied if I stay until ten.
You should go! she had said, when I mentioned tonight's party. Get to know some new people! Do something fun!
Just different shades of the same things she would say to me back home. So I gave my standard response: These things are always boring.
You won't know unless you try, she replied. Maybe it'll be different here.
She had a point. Maybe it would. That's sort of what I'm counting on, after all.
CHAPTER 2
Saturday mornings are for my voice lessons, two hours away on the Florida State University campus in Tallahassee. My mom drives me, despite my protests of I can go by myself.
You're not familiar with the roads here, she said simply when this argument first came about.
Yeah, you never know what you might encounter out there that we never had back home, my dad chipped in.
Like what? I said. Roads are roads.
Gators, Dad said simply.
I want to see a gator! was Laney's contribution.
Now that's the kind of enthusiasm I'm here for, Dad said. You know, Jill, if we stay long enough, Laney might get an accent. Develop herself a fine Southern drawwwl. I might adopt one, too. I might get one of those Colonel Sanders suits.
God help us all, Mom replied.
"Sloane?"
"Hmm?"
"I said, do you mind stopping? Laney wants one of those Floopy toys, from the movie. Think you can choke down a Happy Meal?"
I turn the corner down on the page in my book — even though it's completely pointless, as it's the very first page — and close it. "I'm willing to take one for the team."
Happy Meals acquired, we head back toward the highway. "Did you have fun last night?" Mom says as we merge back on. "You were out pretty late."
"Ten o'clock, wow. Should we throw a parade?"
"Hey, it's the odd night when you're not putting PJs on by seven."
"Maybe I sneak out and go to clubs where PJs are required."
"If there's a club where PJs are required, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be the kind you wear."
I don't know, maybe I could charm the bouncer with my SpongeBob pants and my dad's old SUNY sweatshirt.
"How was the party?" Mom says, before I can get out a rejoinder.
"It was fine."
"Bree seems nice."
Bree is nice. One of the first things she told me about herself was that Kim Kardashian replied to her once on Twitter. I didn't know the proper way to respond to that. Like whether some kind of congratulations were in order.
Bree is my lab partner, the first person I met at Grove County High School, and arguably my only friend here. Not that we've done much else together besides AP bio worksheets and last night's party, and that was only because You haven't been to one yet? Gosh, Sloane, you have to get out eventually! No wonder my mom liked Bree; they were cut from the same cloth.
"Uh-huh," I say, and shove some fries in my mouth.
"Anything fun happen?"
I don't know if I would call dismantling Mason Pierce fun, particularly, but there was a certain satisfaction to it. Nor was meeting Vera and Gabe fun, per se, but it was ... well, it was something different.
I just shrug. "Not really."
"How was your lesson? You didn't say."
"I did say."
"You said 'fine.' Can we expound on 'fine' a little bit? As the passenger, it's your obligation to keep the driver entertained."
This is something my dad says all the time. I think she realizes that, because she goes on quickly: "You're liking Eileen?"
My new voice teacher. I don't dislike her. But, "I miss Paula."
She glances over at me, and it's my turn to go on quickly: "But I mean, Eileen is good, too. Nice to ... get an outside take, I guess?"
"Got to get you in shape for auditions."
My mom is approximately sixteen times more excited for college auditions than I am.
"It's still really early" is all I reply. I just sent in my prescreens before we moved. I would be learning new material with Eileen, as well as maintaining the audition pieces I started with Paula.
It's quiet as we eat. My mom has her own bag in her lap, occasionally pulling out a fry or taking a pull from her Diet Coke.
"You want me to read to you?" I say when I'm done eating.
"I thought you finished your book on the way in."
"Got another. One of Dad's." I hold up the cover for reference, but her eyes don't leave the road.
Her expression doesn't change, but her voice hardens just a smidge: "Maybe I'll just see what's on," and she clicks on the radio. NPR, Fresh Air.
I read anyway. The radio is easy to tune out, even easier when traveling familiar territory. I've read all my dad's books at least once. Some would argue that if you've read one, you've read them all, he's said before. It's true, in a sense — there are definitely some standout Everett Finch tropes. Small coastal towns. Love as a means of salvation. Dead pets. It was rare that an entire cast of characters made it out of a book alive, but at the very least, the dog would bite it. Faithful old Rufus met his maker in Heaven Sent. Max the stray is cut down in Summer Burn. And Avery, the ten-week-old puppy, kicks the bucket in my current read, Sand on Our Beach.
I asked my dad once why the puppy had to die. He said simply, "Tragic irony."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from This Adventure Ends by Emma Mills. Copyright © 2016 Emma Mills. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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