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Back Counting Down with You Save as PDF
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. Dedication
  6. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  7. Part 1
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. Part 2
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. Part 3
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. 49
  59. 50
  60. 51
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How can I, when I’m in the same situation? I can’t tell him to apply to college any more than he can tell me to change my major.

“So what are you going to do?” I ask softly.

“I don’t know,” he says. In my peripheral vision, he ducks his head, staring at our joined hands. “All I know is that I don’t want to do what they want me to.”

The silence folds around us and my eyes grow wet with all that’s left unsaid. “I don’t want to do what my family wants, either. I want to go to Columbia for English.” My voice cracks as I say, “I want so much, but I’m afraid I’ll never have it.”

Ace sighs and offers me his other hand. I take it, and we sit in silence for the next ten minutes, his fingers tracing the lines in my palm. In the quiet, I can hear our hearts breaking.

wishing wells are for those

with fortunes much larger than I

in my pocket, I hold a single gold coin

in your pocket, you hold my heart

I carry your dreams inside my ribs

you carry mine between your hands

we board a ship sailing for the stars

hoping to wish on them instead

but then the ocean demands a price

and slowly, carefully, hopelessly,

we sink alongside our anchor

It’s only after those ten minutes that I remember it’s Friday. I turn to him in alarm, wiping my cheeks hastily. “I thought you had a family dinner?”

“My dad’s out of town,” he says but gets to his feet, helping me up. His eyes gleam with unshed tears, and I pretend not to notice for both our sakes. “I should take you home, though. I’m sorry for bringing up...you know.”

“Hey,” I say, brushing my fingers against his jaw. The touch is gentle, given without any expectations. “No saying sorry.”

He rests his forehead against mine. “No saying sorry.”

And though neither of us can heal the rift between us and our parents, between us and our dreams, I wonder if we can’t heal whatever is left. If we can’t heal together, at each other’s sides.

29

T-MINUS 16 DAYS

I hate coming to community parties.

They’re worse with my parents around, but they’re bad regardless. The problem isn’t my cousins—or at least, the problem isn’t a majority of my cousins—but rather the adults.

There are dozens of brown aunties and uncles hovering over our heads, picking us apart with their eyes and turning us to dust with their words.