But instead of answering, Wyatt leaned forward, took my face in his hands, and kissed me softly.
All the pieces of me came back together in a warm, happy rush.
My heart raced, and my skin felt awake under his touch.
Proof that I’m still alive, I thought.
Then we looked at each other. I could have stared into his soft, wry brown eyes for a hundred years.
“I just didn’t know there were people like you,” he whispered.
The weird thing is, I didn’t know there were people like me, either.
I’d thought I was a girl who didn’t belong anywhere. And now, even though I was the same person, I wasn’t that girl anymore. I felt like I belonged — like I had the right to belong — anywhere I went.
“Wyatt,” I whispered back. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” he said, without so much as a millisecond of hesitation.
“The only thing is” — I pulled back — “I’m kind of broken.”
Wyatt’s hand tightened around mine. “I don’t think you’re broken. I like you just the way you are.”
My face flushed, and I leaned into his chest.
“No,” he said, and I could feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart under his crisp white school shirt. “No, I … I love you just the way you are.”
I nodded, even though he hadn’t asked me anything. “Me, too,” I said. “I love you the way you are, too.”
I thought about how hard it had been for me, in the beginning, to be around someone who wouldn’t settle for a thin veneer of lies — someone who wanted either the real me or nothing at all. And as my hand traced a line down his sleeve, I thought about how I could never again settle for anyone who didn’t push me to tell the truth. To face the truth. To live it.
Even when it hurt.
The breeze picked up, and Wyatt wrapped his arm around me. Our bodies fit together like we’d been designed to sit leaning into one another. Missing pieces of a puzzle, two halves of a clue in a mystery.
I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, and I felt the soft canyon wind weave through my hair.
With every Acknowledgments I write (and every annual soul-searching about how to actually spell “Acknowledgments”), I am again reminded that being an author is a journey, not a destination. And it’s a journey that one can’t take alone. So while the people in my life might be getting sick of being thanked by me, I’m just going to keep doing it. (At least until the megalomania sets in.)
Thank you to my husband and my daughter for being the absolute best and most important things that ever happened to me. To my little sister, Ali, for being wonderful. And much love to Dad, Mom, Helen, Juli, George, Duygu, Kevin, Jillian, Robert, Rebekah, Zack, Onur Ata, Jeff, Vicky, and Aunt B.
Thank you to Chelsea DeVincent and the rest of the Soapboxies, who are like a second family to me. And to our amazing extended circle of friends. And to those rowdy lads.
Thank you to Matthew Elblonk (working with you just gets weirder and funnier every year), and to everyone at DeFiore and Company, who I have to assume spend a lot of time and energy keeping Matt in line. And thank you to Holly Chen and Maddie Elblonk, because from what I have been hearing for years on end, you are both fantastic, and it’s time you got your names in a book.
Thank you to my editor, Aimee Friedman, for brutally offing, like, twelve invasive minor characters and otherwise providing such consistently awesome editorial support and input. And making it fun. AND pretending I don’t occasionally make one wish to bash one’s head against one’s desk.
Thank you to the team at Scholastic: David Levithan, Charisse Meloto, Stephanie Smith, Bess Braswell, Emily Morrow, Emily Heddleson, Antonio Gonzalez, Yaffa Jaskoll, Elizabeth Krych, Alix Inchausti, Jody Revenson, Jennifer Ung, Rachel Schwartz, and Larry Decker. You guys are amazing.
Thank you and thank you and thank you to the parents, booksellers, bloggers, teachers, administrators, librarians, and media specialists who make it possible for people to read my books.
And lastly, thank you to my incredible readers. You are, as individuals as well as collectively, the cat’s pajamas.
Katie Alender is the acclaimed author of several novels for young adults, including Bad Girls Don’t Die; From Bad to Cursed; and Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer. A graduate of the Florida State University Film School, Katie now lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their daughter. She enjoys reading, sewing, and watching movies. To find out more about Katie, visit katiealender.com.
Also by
KATIE ALENDER
Bad Girls Don’t Die
From Bad to Cursed
As Dead as It Gets
Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer
Copyright © 2014 by Katie Alender
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alender, Katie, author.
Famous last words / Katie Alender. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: High-schooler Willa has just moved to California with her mother and film director stepfather, and she will be attending a private school — but her real problem is that she keeps seeing things that are not really there, like a dead body in the swimming pool, and her visions may be connected to a serial killer that is stalking young girls in Hollywood.
ISBN 978-0-545-63997-2 (jacketed hardcover) 1. Paranormal fiction. 2. Serial murderers — California — Los Angeles — Juvenile fiction. 3. Stepfamilies — Juvenile fiction. 4. High schools — California — Los Angeles — Juvenile fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories. 6. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.) — Juvenile fiction. [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Clairvoyance — Fiction. 3. Serial murderers — Fiction. 4. Stepfamilies — Fiction. 5. High schools — Fiction. 6. Schools — Fiction. 7. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.) — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A3747Fam 2014
813.6 — dc23
2014008920
First edition, October 2014
Author photo by Christopher Alender
Cover art © 2014 by Larry Rostant
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
Photo credits: PhotoHouse/Shutterstock (Natural red roses background), Henry Steadman/Getty Images (Blood Rose), and Subbotina Anna/Shutterstock (Rose Petals)
e-ISBN 978-0-545-63998-9
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.