Speed of Life

Sofia lost her mother eight months ago, and her friends were one hundred percent there for her. Now it’s a new year, and they’re ready for Sofia to move on.

Problem is, Sofia can’t bounce back, can’t recharge like a cell phone. She decides to write Dear Kate, an advice columnist for Fifteen Magazine, and is surprised to receive a fast reply. Soon the two are exchanging emails, and Sofia opens up and spills all, including a few worries that are totally embarrassing. Turns out even advice columnists don’t have all the answers, and one day Sofia learns a secret that flips her world upside down.

Speed of Life is the heartbreaking, heartwarming story of a girl who thinks her life is over when really it’s just beginning. It’s a novel about love, family, grief, and growing up.

ALSO BY CAROL WESTON

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Ava XOX

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Copyright © 2017 by Carol Weston

Cover and internal design © 2017, 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover image © Svitlana Sokolova/Shutterstock

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Weston, Carol, author.

Title: Speed of life / Carol Weston.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, [2017] | Summary: Fourteen-year-old Sofia Wolfe has her fair share of problems, and she doesn't have anyone to talk to...until she finds 'Dear Kate.'-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016051104 | (alk. paper)

Classification: LCC PZ7.W526285 Sp 2017

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016051104

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part One

January

February

March

April

May

June

Part Two

July

August

September

October

November

December

January

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

TO MY MOM AND DAD—

WISHING I COULD SIGN A COPY FOR THEM

Warning: This is kind of a sad story. At least at first. So if you don’t like sad stories, maybe you shouldn’t read this. I mean, I’d understand if you put it down and watched cat videos instead.

I like cat videos too.

Then again, this book is already in your hands.

It starts and ends on January 1, and I was thinking of calling it The Year My Whole Life Changed. Or Life, Death, and Kisses. Or maybe even The Year I Grew Up.

For me, being fourteen was hard. Really hard. Childhood was a piece of cake. Being a kid in New York City and spending summers in Spain, that was all pretty perfect, looking back. But being fourteen was like climbing a mountain in the rain. In flip-flops. I hoped I’d wind up in a different place, but I kept tripping and slipping and falling and wishing it weren’t way too late to turn around.

This book does have funny parts. And I learned two giant facts.

Number one: everything can change in an instant—for worse, sure, but also for better. Number two: sometimes, if you just keep climbing, you get an amazing view. You see what’s behind you and what’s ahead of you and—the big surprise—what’s inside you.

Part One

January

Guess who’s coming to assembly, Kiki said. We’d agreed to meet in my lobby and walk across Central Park together. I’d told her I didn’t want to go to my building’s New Year’s Day party, and she didn’t push me, which I appreciated.

Kiki was bundled up in her new blue coat and looked gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous, I thought, though I’d come to hate that expression.

We’d been best friends since West Side Montessori. She lived eight blocks north, and we always used to play school and restaurant and, since we were city kids, elevator. We’d step inside my hallway closet, press pretend numbers, and make-believe we were going up and down, up and down.

Now Kiki was fourteen—like me—but seemed older. Half Vietnamese, half Brazilian, with dark eyes and cocoa skin, she became a boy magnet right around the time I became a girl that some kids avoided. Guys from Buckley, St. Bernard’s, and Hunter began to text her just as the few boys I considered friends vanished.

Sofia, guess who’s coming! she said, impatient.

I give up. Who? I checked the lobby mirror to adjust my wool scarf and make sure nothing was caught in my braces.

"Dear Kate! Can you believe it? Dr. G just told me. God, it’s so weird to see a teacher outside of school. And on vacation!"

I’m used to it, I said. Halsey Tower, my home since birth, was right across from our school. Nicknamed Teacher Tower, it was like a vertical village of teachers. But who’s Dear Kate again? The name rang a distant bell.

Kiki stared at me. You don’t remember? She waited.

Oh, right. I did remember. Dear Kate was the advice columnist for Fifteen Magazine. At a sleepover at Kiki’s the previous summer, Kiki was taking a shower, and I’d stumbled on an email exchange she had printed out. I hadn’t meant to snoop. I just hadn’t known we had secrets.

Dear Kate,

My BFF’s mom died a few months ago and she’s still sad all the time and I don’t know how to help.

Wanting to Help

Dear Wanting to Help,

You’re already helping—your best friend is lucky to have you. Tell her that if she wants to talk about her mom, you’re there for her. And if you’re tempted to share a happy memory, don’t hesitate. You won’t be reminding her of her mother; she’s already thinking of her. Her sadness is understandable, and your kindness means more than you realize.

Kate

At the time, I was hurt and offended. Did Kiki think of me as a charity case? "Oh, please, Kiki had said. I thought she could help."

No one can help! I’d said and considered storming off. But I didn’t. I couldn’t afford to lose Kiki.

Now we were in the park, heading toward Bloomingdale’s. The trees were sticks. The duck pond was frozen. The sky was impossibly blue.

So what’s Dear Kate going to talk about? I asked.

Probably the ABC’s of adolescence.

The ABC’s?

Anorexia, Bulimia, and Cutting! Kiki laughed. "And maybe the P’s?"

"The P’s? You’ve lost me."

Pimples, Periods, and Popularity! Kiki was cracking herself up. "And definitely the S’s!"

I rolled my eyes, but it was clear Kiki was going to wait until I started guessing. Stress? I finally offered.

That’s one.

Substance abuse? I said.

That’s two. And c’mon, Sof. What’s the most important?

I looked to make sure no one we knew was around—no boys, no parents, no teachers. Sex?

Sex! Kiki repeated loudly. And sexually transmitted diseases!

Ugh, I hope she spares us. I hear enough about ‘infection protection’ at home. Kiki knows my dad is a gynecologist who sometimes offers random talks about STDs or unintended pregnancies.

Kiki and I passed Wollman Rink and watched a wobbly girl on ice skates clutch her mother’s hand. Dear Kate has a daughter, Kiki said. Can you imagine being the daughter of a teen advice columnist?

No.

She’ll be talking to the parents too.

The daughter?

The mother! Kiki looked at me, exasperated. We should get my mom and your dad to go. Three years earlier, Kiki’s dad had moved out, and lately, Kiki had been hinting about setting up our parents. Or at least tell me if he’s going so I can tell my mom to get dressed up and save him a seat! She laughed.

Shut up! Your mom would kill you.

"Or thank me. He is an eligible bachelor, Sof. Free gyno appointments for life!"

Kiki, stop, I said, and she backed down. I didn’t like to think of my dad as eligible. I was still getting used to widower. And while I’d noticed a few women flirt with Dad (including Kiki’s mother, Lan, whenever we went to her restaurant, Saigon Sun), I’d never seen him flirt back.

Mom used to call Dad "Guapo"—Handsome. But now he was fifty, and I figured he’d shut down that part of himself. Which was fine by me. I couldn’t handle it if he started dating.

What do you want to buy? I asked, changing the subject. We were crossing Fifth Avenue heading east.

"I’m desperate for new jeans, Kiki answered. What do you need?"

Maybe a skirt for the dance with Regis. Or a sweater? I didn’t say what I really needed—more than a new skirt or sweater—was to feel like my old self again. To feel like I could breathe.

• • •

On Sunday, Dad wanted me to help him take down our tree. It was a miracle we’d managed to put one up, and I didn’t see what the big hurry was to take it down.

But Dad likes things neat, and Christmas is messy.

I’d always loved Christmas—the decorations, school concerts, presents, parties. I loved how, right after Thanksgiving, Canadian lumberjacks drove into New York City with trucks full of evergreens and set up miniature forests on the sidewalks.

Mom, Dad, and I had our own ritual. In early December, we’d pick out a tree on Broadway and lug it home to Ninety-Third Street. Dad would stand it up in its base, Mom would water it with ginger ale, and I’d hang the first ornament. We’d trim the tree together as we listened to carols—everything from Deck the Halls to Feliz Navidad. Pepper, our black cat, would race around, batting at the low-hanging mouse-size ornaments.

That was our family tradition. I thought it would last forever.

But Mom died on April 7, and I died a little that day too.

The first months without Mom were a blur. I still caught glimpses of her everywhere: chopping onions, folding laundry, disappearing into the subway. I couldn’t believe Mom was dead—and spring came anyway. At school, most people were extra nice to me, but others kept their distance, as if a death in the family made conversation too awkward—or might be contagious.

I spent most of that summer before eighth grade with Abuelo, Mom’s father, in Spain. He and I took dozens of walks in the hills outside Segovia. Some mornings, we’d get pastries by the Roman aqueduct and he’d point out pairs of storks nesting on towers. Or we’d pass the Alcázar, which looked like a castle in a fairy tale. On hot afternoons, my grandfather took a nap and I sometimes ducked into the cool Gothic cathedral and tried to picture Mom there as a schoolgirl in the choir. Tried to hear her singing.

I returned to New York before Labor Day and went back to hanging out with Kiki and Natalie and Madison. But it was a long fall, and I mean that both ways: fall as in autumn and fall as in falling. Worse, everyone—even Kiki!—seemed to expect me to have bounced back.

No one got it.

I wasn’t going to bounce back. And no, I wasn’t depressed. I was sad. Who wouldn’t be?

On December 21, I turned fourteen and had my first unhappy birthday. The unmerry Christmas came days later, and now it was a new year, and—ready or not—Dad wanted to take down our stupid tree. It felt like a low blow. Christmas had sucked, but I still didn’t want it to be over.

Strange. On TV, you never see anyone undecorating. Decorating, yes, every year on every show. But undecorating? Never. You don’t see dads and daughters placing twinkly lights and plastic mistletoe back into boxes, as if in a home movie playing in the wrong direction.

I didn’t have it in me to argue. So I did as I was told and became the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. I stole everything: the ornaments, the wooden crèche Abuelo had carved, Dad’s and my crimson stockings. I tried not to think of Mom’s matching stocking, neatly folded in a storage unit in the basement of our building.

We laid our bare tree on an old ripped sheet, wrapped it, and dragged it to the elevator, where we propped it up and took it outside. Then we left it, toppled on the street, with a clump of other discarded evergreens, the top ones dusted with snow.

Back inside, Dad got out the vacuum cleaner, and Pepper ran for cover. I didn’t mind the noise because at least it stirred up the smell of pine needles—and happier holidays.

I checked to make sure we’d gotten rid of every last shred of Christmas. And that’s when I saw the red-and-green construction-paper chain draped over a window. Mom and I had made that chain when I was in first grade. I could still feel the plastic scissors in my hand, still smell the sweet Elmer’s glue.

Dad followed my eyes. I’ll take it down, he offered.

Okay, I said, surprised at the lump in my throat. That didn’t happen much anymore, thank God. I’d grown used to the reminders, the photos of the three of us at the Hippo Playground, at Jones Beach, in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor. At first, I lost myself in every photo. Now I could usually walk by without looking, look without feeling.

As soon as we put everything away, Dad said, I’ll take you out for dinner. Maybe Bodrum?

Whatever, I mumbled.

We can talk, he said.

No, we can’t, I thought.

• • •

When I was little, if I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d tiptoe into my parents’ room and nudge my mom. She’d stumble out of bed, groggy, then come lie down with me on my bed. She’d whisper, "Que sueñas con los angelitos," which is what you say in Spain: Dream of little angels. And we’d both fall asleep under my pink canopy.

Seems like forever ago.

And also yesterday.

Mom taught Spanish at Halsey School for Girls, and those first months without her, when I couldn’t sleep, instead of waking Dad, I’d stay in bed and listen to Mrs. Morris, the computer teacher in 6C, pacing above. Sometimes, the clicking of her heels bothered me. Other times, the sound kept me company.

I’d try to fall back asleep, but you can’t fall asleep by making an effort, only by letting go.

Lately, though, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d get out of bed and find Pepper. I’d hold him by the cold window and hissing radiator and look out at the dark buildings, some with lights still on and trees still twinkling. Or I’d look at photos of Mom and wonder if somehow she could be looking back. Sometimes, I’d be tempted to call Abuelo, since it was already early morning in Spain. But I didn’t want to scare him. That summer, he’d told me it made him nervous when the phone rang at odd hours.

I’d been the one to tell him about the aneurysm. Until April 7, I’d never even heard the word. Breast cancer, heart attack, car accident: those were words to worry about. But aneurysm? Cerebral hemorrhage? Those were spelling words, not ways to die.

Dad had asked me to make the call because my Spanish was better and because, as he’d put it, Silvio will need to hear your voice. So I’d called, broken the news, and broken his heart.

"Abuelito, tengo noticias terribles…"

Thinking about it later, as I often did, I was glad that at least Abuelo hadn’t seen what I saw.

I’d been alone when I’d found Mom. I’d rung the doorbell, dug for my key, let myself in. I’d tossed down my backpack and shouted, I’m home! The apartment was pin-drop quiet, and there was no smell of simmering onions. Mom always told me when she had faculty meetings, so I was surprised by the silence. But I didn’t feel the first prickle of alarm until I walked into the living room and saw the back of her head slumped unnaturally on the sofa.

"¿Mamá?" I said.

"¿Mamá?" The prickle became panic.

MOM! I stepped closer and saw that my mother had slipped onto her side. At first, I just stood there, as immobile as she was. Then I pushed back her dark hair. She stayed still and her face was blank and pale, though her eyes were open.

"No! I screamed. No! I put my arms around her, but her arm was limp and heavy. No!" I couldn’t stop screaming.

I called Dad and blubbered into the phone. At first, he said, That’s not possible! He asked me to check that there was no breath, no pulse. I did, and then I heard him crying too. He said he’d call 911 and would race home. Pepper looked at me, wide-eyed, and I tried to hold him as I phoned Mrs. Russell, our downstairs neighbor. But he wriggled away, scratching my arm. I wanted Mrs. Russell to come over, but I also didn’t. If no one else saw my mother, maybe it could all be some dreadful misunderstanding.

Mrs. Russell arrived, then Dad, then more and more and more people. There was no misunderstanding.

That evening, I looked up aneurysm in Spanish—aneurisma—and phoned my grandfather. I told him that Mom’s expression was peaceful, which it was. After a long while, he said, "una muerte dulce," a sweet death.

Of course, we both knew there was nothing sweet about dying at age forty-two.

I did not tell Abuelo that by the time they took her away, Mom’s body had gone stiff and cold. I wished I hadn’t noticed.

• • •

Two days before Dear Kate’s visit to Halsey, Kiki handed me a stack of old Fifteens, all open to her columns. Read these, she’d commanded.

What? You’re giving me homework?

Yep. Kiki opened my closet, reached in, and took out the skirt I’d bought at Bloomie’s. Can I borrow this? she asked, and I shrugged: sure. Then she looked at the closet floor and said, Omigod! Your dollhouse! She lifted up the wooden mother and father. They’re so much smaller than I remembered!

Kiki and I used to spend hours playing with my dollhouse. Abuelo had carved it and given it to me when I turned five. The first time Kiki and I played with it, we smooshed all the wooden tables, chairs, beds, cabinets, and people onto the top floor. Mom said we could spread out, but Kiki and I were used to apartments, not houses, and spreading out had felt unnatural. We couldn’t imagine a family taking up two floors.

How is your grandfather anyway? Kiki asked as she pulled on my skirt and studied herself in my mirror.

Okay. He’s coming in March.

Cool. She told me she was about to go meet Derek but had told her mom she was with me. Not that she’s going to call you or anything. Derek was Kiki’s latest boyfriend, and I said I’d cover for her if she did call. Then Kiki left, leaving her jeans and magazines behind.

I made some hot chocolate, found Pepper, looked at the Fifteens, and read the Dear Kate columns slowly, one after another. I liked the advice. And I liked that Dear Kate never said, Talk to your mom. She seemed to know that parents in plural was not a given.

February

I’m obsessed with her earrings, Kiki said. And seriously, how cool are those boots?

Kiki had saved fourth-row seats for Natalie, Madison, and me and was clutching her battered copy of Girls’ Guide. Principal Milliman was introducing Dear Kate.

The advice columnist’s eyes were blue-jean blue and her hair was strawberry blond and shoulder length. I wondered if she was going to tell us to believe in ourselves and find our passions and follow our dreams.

She didn’t. She began, I visit a lot of schools, but I’ll be honest: I like all-girls’ schools best. Why? Because I can dive right in and talk about bras, periods, cliques, and crushes.

Kiki elbowed me as if to say, See?

I know your plates are full of academics, but this is also the time when you’re getting comfortable with your bodies. Me, I wasn’t just a late bloomer—I was a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee! I still am. Dear Kate laughed and the audience did too. It used to bother me, but now it doesn’t. I mean, we all bloom! And big boobs are fine but so are little boobs and medium boobs.

Mr. Conklin, my Latin teacher, smiled, and I could feel myself starting to blush. Even though Mom had been a teacher, I’d never thought of the other female teachers at Halsey School for Girls as women with bodies. As for the male teachers, I wished Principal Milliman had told them to skip assembly.

The average American girl gets her first period at about twelve and a half, Dear Kate continued. Many start sooner or later. I didn’t get mine until I was fifteen.

Kiki and Natalie had both started the previous winter; I’d started that fall and still wasn’t regular. I knew I could ask my doctor dad about this, but it had been much easier when I could ask my mom.

Was thirteen the worst possible age to lose your mother? Maybe. Then again, there was no good age.

Let’s talk about putting in a tampon, Dear Kate was saying, her expression bright. For some of you, it’s a no-brainer. For others, it’s like: never gonna happen. I looked around. Girls were giggling, but everyone was riveted. If you’re having trouble, you can buy the small, slender, plastic kind for first-timers. Apply a dab of Vaseline to the tip of the applicator. Then relax, take a deep breath, and give it a go but only during your time of the month—no practicing between periods! Madison had been searching her long, blond hair for split ends but was now leaning forward. Once you’re a pro, you can go green and buy tampons that aren’t plastic. Natalie nodded.

Some girls tell me they can’t figure out where the tampon goes. Dear Kate continued, arching an eyebrow. "Ladies, there are three holes down there. Un, deux, trois. One’s for pee, one’s for poo, and in the middle is the vagina. If in doubt, check a mirror!"

Everyone started laughing, and the teachers started shushing us. I looked at Principal Milliman, half expecting her to jump up and haul Dear Kate off the stage. But she remained seated as if our speakers routinely said pee and poo and vagina into the microphone.

I realize this is all superpersonal,