When You Reach Me (14 page)

The next morning, I wake up early, cut myself a big piece of Richard’s birthday cake for breakfast, and start writing the letter. I’m writing it in the journal with the clouds on the cover that Mom gave me for Christmas. I’m at the top of the second page when it dawns on me that this letter I’m writing is kind of a horrible burden. And I start feeling really sorry for Marcus.

It’s not a letter that most people would want to get. I know it will be a big relief to know that he didn’t accidentally cause the laughing man’s death—your death—after all. That’s a good thing. But at the same time, he’ll understand that he saw his
own
death, which I have to think is a very hard thing. And he’ll also realize that he’s going to discover the secret of traveling through time, which is a thing so incredible that most people would consider it a miracle. Of course, he’s the total hero of the story. But there isn’t a happy ending for him.

I start at the very beginning, when you first showed up in the fall, and I’m thinking about everything you did—the spot on the corner where you stood, your kicking practice, the way you muttered to yourself. “Book, bag, pocket, shoe.” There was a reason for all of it.

Except for one thing. I don’t understand why you used to lie on the ground with your head under the mailbox. Why? It must have been annoying the way kids were always banging on it.

I raise my head slowly from the journal. Then I get dressed in a hurry, pulling a sweater on over my pajama top. I leave a note on the kitchen table, grab my keys, and slip out of the apartment before Mom and Richard wake up.

It’s an almost-warm morning. No one is on the corner, which is good, because I probably look pretty strange lying faceup on the sidewalk and inching myself under the mailbox. It isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

The underside of a mailbox is really ugly—a bunch of paint-splattered metal joints and bolts. I see the square of paper right away. It’s small, about the same size as the notes you left me, and it’s wedged under a metal seam so that it stays flat against the bottom of the box. I realize that it’s held there with a key—our old key, the one we hid in the fire hose. I adjust my head so that I’m looking straight up at the paper, the way you must have.

A woman’s face stares down at me, drawn in pencil. She’s old, like you were. Her white hair is pulled back behind her head, her dark eyes are looking to the side a little, and she has this playful smile. It’s really kind of a beautiful drawing.

People can get old all different ways, I guess. Some people change a lot, like you. I could have stared at your face for a week and I never would have guessed that you were Marcus. You were so much thinner than he is, and the bones above your eyes stuck out. Maybe that was because of what you put yourself through—all the diamond-jumping. But the old woman’s face in the drawing still holds some youth. It’s the dark eyes, maybe, or the smile. It’s hard to say exactly how we recognize other people. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that this woman is Julia.

Marcus and Julia. I think about how she whipped her diamond ring off and used it to explain the way she sees time, and the way Marcus stared at her afterward. Maybe he was thinking that he wasn’t alone in the world after all. I get this rush of happiness, this flood of relief. Marcus won’t be alone. He’ll have a partner. He’ll have Julia.

I’m wiggling out from under the mailbox—some guy with a big black dog is looking at me funny—and I suddenly remember what you said to me, practically on this exact spot, the afternoon I gave you my soggy cheese sandwich:
I’m an old man, and she’s gone now. So don’t worry, okay?

I believe that you were ready. But I still think it’s sad.

I leave the drawing there, wedged underneath the mailbox with our key. It doesn’t seem right to take it. I figure it will be there for a long time, and then, someday, it’ll just blow away.

Sal and I don’t wait for each other these days. Not purposely. But if we happen to be leaving school at the same time, if he isn’t going to a friend’s, or to basketball practice, and I’m not going to Annemarie’s or Julia’s—or Colin’s—then Sal and I walk home together. And we are better this way, together because we want to be. He understood that before I did.

We walk up to Broadway, past Jimmy’s. We walk to Amsterdam, past the garage, where the boys still say stuff to us and we ignore them. We walk past Marcus’s door.

We pass Belle’s. We cross the last street, to your old corner, where the mailbox is still scratched up with your words.

And when we are safely across, Sal always gives a little salute. And sometimes I look up, and shake my fist at the sky.

My letter is almost finished now. Very soon, I will bring it to Marcus, just like you asked.

There are things I could tell him, things I think I’ve figured out, like that those naked guys—the ones running down the street the days we had to eat lunch in the school cafeteria, and the one I saw flickering in and out before the accident—they were all you, learning how to get here. Practicing. You said you couldn’t carry anything, and I guess that includes clothes. That’s why you carried my notes in your mouth.

Or I could give Marcus some advice, like if he gets hungry while he’s visiting, he’ll find Annemarie’s perfectly good lunch in the garbage can across from the schoolyard, where she threw it away every day for six weeks. But I’m pretty sure you figured that out for yourself.

Or I could tell him about Julia.

But I’ve decided I won’t say much. I’ll just hand him my letter and say, “Try not to land in the broccoli.” He’ll understand. He’s a smart kid.

I had to be rescued several times while writing this book, and my profound gratitude goes to: my editor, Wendy Lamb, and associate editor Caroline Meckler, for their questions, advice, and trust; my agent, Faye Bender, for her insight and unflagging support; my wise and generous draft-readers, Deborah Stead, Karen Romano Young, Robert Warren, Jack O’Brien, Sean O’Brien, Samantha Kish-Levine, Michelle Knudsen, Alison James, and Daphne Grab, for their crucial aid and encouragement; the talented Colleen Fellingham and Barbara Perris, for their keen eyes and uncompromising copyediting standards; and art director Kate Gartner, for her delightful book design. Special thanks to Randi Kish, who opened her memory to me at a moment’s notice, and to David Stead, who helped me understand my own story, once and for all, over breakfast.

Every writer stands on the shoulders of many other writers, and it isn’t practical to thank all of them. However, I would like to express my special admiration for the astonishing imagination and hard work of Madeleine L’Engle, whose books captivated me when I was young (they still do), and made me want in on the secrets of the universe (ditto).

a cognizant original v5 release october 23 2010

REBECCA STEAD is the author of
First Light
. She grew up in New York City and still lives there, with her husband and their two sons.

Published by Wendy Lamb Books
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Rebecca Stead

All rights reserved.

Wendy Lamb Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stead, Rebecca.
When you reach me / Rebecca Stead. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: As her mother prepares to be a contestant on the 1970s television game show, “The $20,000 Pyramid,” a twelve-year-old New York City girl tries to make sense of a series of mysterious notes received from an anonymous source that seems to defy the laws of time and space.

eISBN: 978-0-375-89269-1
[1. Space and time—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—
History—1951—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S80857Wh 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008024998

v3.0