Chasing Brooklyn Read online

  Chasing Brooklyn

  Also by LISA SCHROEDER

  I Heart You, You Haunt Me

  Far from You

  Chasing Brooklyn

  LISA SCHROEDER

  Simon Pulse

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical

  events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other

  names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s

  imagination, and any resemblance to actual events

  or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition February 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Schroeder

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949

  or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your

  live event. For more information or to book an event contact the

  Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit

  our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Designed by Mike Rosamilia

  The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Schroeder, Lisa.

  Chasing Brooklyn / Lisa Schroeder.—1st Simon Pulse ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: As teenagers Brooklyn and Nico work to help

  each other recover from the deaths of Brooklyn’s boyfriend—

  Nico’s brother Lucca—and their friend, Gabe, the two begin

  to rediscover their passion for life, and a newly

  blossoming passion for each other.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9168-7

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Nightmares—Fiction.

  4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.5.S37Ch 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009019442

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9882-2 (eBook)

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9168-7

  For Michael del Rosario—

  I couldn’t have done it without you

  Acknowledgments

  It takes many, many people to make a book and then to get said book into the hands of readers. I’d like to take this opportunity to shine the light on the team of people who have worked tirelessly behind the scenes on my behalf. Please know I appreciate your work more than I can say.

  A HUGE thank-you to:

  The electric editorial team—Bethany Buck, Jennifer Klonsky, Mara Anastas, Anica Rissi, Annette Pollert, Emilia Rhodes, and Michael del Rosario.

  The pristine production team—Carey O’Brien, Brenna Franzitta, and Ted Allen.

  The delightful design team—Cara Petrus and Mike Rosamilia.

  The marvelous marketing team—Lucille Rettino, Bess Braswell, and Venessa Williams.

  The legendary library and education marketing team—Michelle Fadlalla and Laura Antonacci.

  The perky publicity team—Paul Crichton and Andrea Kempfer.

  The SUPERspectacular sales team, who are too many to list here unfortunately, and a special shout-out to Victor Iannone for his enthusiasm and Jim Conlin because the third book might not be here if it weren’t for his incredible support of the first.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Brooklyn

  One year ago today

  I lost my boyfriend, Lucca.

  He was

  an artist

  like me,

  a dreamer

  like me,

  a nature lover

  like me.

  We met in September

  of our sophomore year.

  By November,

  he was my first

  “I love you”

  boyfriend.

  Some thought it was impossible

  after only two months.

  I’d reply, love doesn’t tell time.

  Love is simply there

  or it isn’t.

  Every day,

  in every way,

  it was there.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Nico

  One year ago today

  I lost my brother, Lucca.

  He was a son,

  a brother,

  a friend.

  The whole school was in shock when he died.

  Just six months earlier,

  another guy from our school died.

  Everyone went on about too much tragedy.

  Want to know about tragedy?

  Come to my house.

  A year later, tragedy is still here.

  Every damn day, it’s here.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Brooklyn

  It’s early when I take flowers

  to his grave.

  I don’t want to see

  anyone else.

  The yellow Gerber daisies

  aren’t flashy,

  but beautiful in their own special way.

  Like he was.

  How many times

  have I wondered

  if he’d still be alive

  if I had stayed home?

  How many times

  have I wondered

  if there’s anything

  I could have done?

  How many times

  have I replayed

  it all in my head?

  More than there are

  blades of grass in this cemetery,

  that’s how many.

  Last New Year’s Eve.

  He said he’d be careful.

  He said he wouldn’t drink.

  He said he loved me and he’d see me soon.

  I was in North Dakota, at Grandma’s, for the holidays.

  We talked just a few hours

  before it apparently happened.

  In the early morning hours,

  while I had sweet dreams

  of me in his warm, loving arms,

  my phone filled with messages.

  Messages from friends telling me

  my boyfriend was

  dead.

  #277

  Dear Lucca,

  I don’t like cemeteries. Although, does anyone

  really like cemeteries?

  I mean, really? So many

  dead people, and they’re just creepy. But here I sit

  in one, writing you a letter.

  I remember one year when I was six years old,

  Daddy drove me through a cemetery Halloween

  night. He said when he was younger, he liked to

  have spooky fun in a graveyard. I was excited,

  until we got there and walked around. He told me

  we might get lucky and run into a real live ghost. I

  turned around and ran back to the car as fast as I

  could, crying so hard I thought I was going

  to throw up.

  But for you, I’ll do anything. Hope you like the

  daisies.

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Nico

  I go by myself

  to see Lucca.

  Ma will be too loud,

  wailing for him to come back,

/>   as if Heaven will hear her cries and do as she says.

  Yellow daisies tell me Brooklyn’s been here.

  His flower girl.

  I brought nothing.

  Just myself.

  Seems fitting.

  Feels like that’s all I’ve got anymore.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Brooklyn

  At home, in my room

  I pull out the shoebox

  filled with Lucca

  keepsakes.

  Notes passed

  between classes

  with words of adoration

  and little cartoons

  telling the story

  of me and him.

  Love

  Pictures of us

  smiling

  making faces

  kissing

  around town

  one sunny afternoon.

  Joy

  Ticket stubs

  from time shared

  together at

  plays,

  movies,

  concerts.

  Happiness

  After a while,

  I put the box away,

  the love,

  joy,

  and happiness

  right along with it.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Nico

  On the way home

  I stop at the park

  where we used to

  run

  slide

  swing

  jump

  boys being boys,

  our happiness measured

  by how far we could jump from the swings.

  Today I swing,

  my legs pumping hard and fast

  to that magical place where it feels like any second,

  my feet will touch the clouds.

  But this time, I don’t jump.

  I

  just

  stop

  pumping.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Brooklyn

  I grab my Lucca notebook

  and make the weekly trek

  to Another Galaxy.

  Lucca loved going to

  the comic book store

  where the shelves are filled

  with the best of

  art and storytelling.

  It was his home

  away from home.

  Now, I find strength in the pages

  of the skinny little books.

  Who doesn’t love to see

  characters overcoming

  the greatest of odds?

  So I go, combing the boxes,

  picking up a couple each week

  with some of my allowance.

  I keep them by my bed

  and when I can’t sleep,

  I pull a comic out

  and hope a little of the

  courage and strength

  comes to me

  through the pages.

  Tom Strong is my favorite.

  Sure, the story is good.

  But it’s his name

  I love the most.

  When I get to the store,

  the sign says CLOSED.

  New Year’s Day.

  A holiday.

  I forgot.

  The anniversary of the day

  your boyfriend died

  will do that to a girl.

  Sun., Jan. 1st—Nico

  Time for a run.

  How far today?

  Five miles?

  Six?

  It’s only noon.

  I have the whole afternoon.

  Might as well go eight or nine.

  “Don’t you want lunch?” Ma calls after me.

  I wave at her and head out.

  Lunch can wait.

  Everything can wait.

  Time to run.

  Mon., Jan. 2nd—Brooklyn

  The walls of death

  are closing in around me.

  My best friend, Kyra, calls to ask

  if I’ve heard the news about Gabe.

  Gabe Gibson, Lucca’s friend.

  The driver that night.

  The one who survived.

  When she tells me what’s happened,

  her words hit me hard,

  like a hammer to my heart,

  I fall to the floor.

  “Brooklyn?

  Brooklyn!

  Are you okay?”

  It’s hot.

  Stifling.

  Need. Air.

  “Brooklyn!

  Should I come over?”

  I make it outside,

  where the sun is setting,

  the sky a canvas splattered

  with vibrant red and orange.

  Clouds stretch across the sky

  like cotton balls pulled apart by a child.

  It looks so soft, I close my eyes,

  trying to imagine the sky

  wrapped around me,

  comforting me.

  But it’s impossible

  to feel comforted

  in this uncomfortable

  moment.

  “Brooklyn, speak now or I’m calling 911!”

  “Kyra—” I whisper,

  and that’s all I can manage.

  Every part of me feels

  numb.

  “I know,” she says.

  “I know. You okay?”

  “No … no!

  How could he…

  I don’t …

  Are you sure?

  I mean really?

  God, I feel sick.

  Was it an accident or—?”

  “Don’t know.

  A drug overdose.

  That’s all they’re saying.”

  My mind races,

  a million questions

  chasing one another,

  eluding any

  logical answers.

  He lived.

  He made it.

  A second chance,

  given to one

  and not the other.

  And this?

  This is what he did with it?

  “I can’t believe it, Kyra.”

  “I’m so sorry, B.

  I knew this would upset you.”

  “I gotta go,” I say.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As the red and orange

  fade into grayness,

  I can’t hold it in

  anymore.

  I sob and think,

  Why, Gabe?

  Why?

  Mon., Jan. 2nd—Nico

  I’m so pissed,

  I can’t stop throwing things.

  I threw the Guitar Hero guitar across the room and broke it.

  If Lucca was alive, he’d be pissed too.

  Except if my brother was alive,

  his friend wouldn’t have gone off the deep end,

  so they’d both still be here

  and there wouldn’t be anything to be pissed about.

  I don’t care how guilty you feel about driving your car into a tree,

  you don’t go and do something stupid like that.

  Asshole.

  I don’t get it.

  Was he trying to punish himself?

  No. He didn’t punish himself.

  He punished

  his bandmates,

  his family,

  a whole school.

  A school that’s had more than its fair share of grief.

  I pace the floor, my heart racing while I resist the urge

  to throw more stuff around.

  Finally, I put on my running shoes.

  I’ll run until I can’t run anymore.

  Mon., Jan. 2nd—Brooklyn

  Gabe was one of those guys

  who was full of life.

  Always talking.

  Always laughing.

  Always wanting to be the center of attention.

  Big guy

  with a bigger smile

  and the biggest heart.

  After Lucca died,

  it changed Gabe.

  Of course it wou
ld.

  He went from front and center

  to just fading into the background.

  We hung out for a while

  after it happened.

  Didn’t talk much.

  Mostly we sat in his room,

  me writing letters,

  him strumming on his guitar.

  Still, we promised

  we’d help each other through it.