We all laugh, and Donna says, “I’m paying then.”
I put BBB in his room, put on the classical music station, and it’s playing Chopin’s “Minute Waltz,” which makes BBB start jumping and dancing, so I watch him for a while—my best buddy, BBB—and then I lock B Thrice’s bedroom door and we all pile into Ty’s Volvo station wagon, and someone suggests that we ring and run Franks’ house, so we drive there, and Jared runs up to the door, rings the doorbell, and then runs back into the car. When Franks’ redheaded wife steps outside and looks around clueless, we all laugh, and Ty hits the gas.
At Friendly’s Donna orders one of every sundae and some fries too. We all sword fight with the long dessert spoons, getting whipped cream and cherries and caramel and chocolate sauce and nuts all over the place. We laugh our heads off. Donna takes it all in with a wise smile. And in my head I say a little prayer to JC.
I don’t get it, JC. I don’t understand the plan. I miss my mom. To take her like that when I’m not yet even a woman—it’s not really fair, is it? But I’m glad there are times like this. I’m glad there are friends like this. I am glad there are Friendly’s sundaes. That’s all for right now.
Donna is smiling. All my boys are eating ice cream. I have a whole booth full of good friends. And I think to myself, you cannot give up, Amber. No matter what happens.
I won’t. I will.
Suddenly, as I think about my mom, I feel like I might start crying.
Before I burst into tears, in my mind, I start pumping myself up with accolades to stop the waterworks, and I’m using a super-mega sports announcer voice: The indomitably hopeful one!
The girl of unyielding optimism!
The teen of merriment!
The fan favorite!
Your undisputed champion!
“Amber—Rock Star of Hope—Apple-TOOOOOOOOOON!” I yell across the Friendly’s, and everyone in the joint turns and looks at me like my head is on fire.
“You are such a freak,” Jared whispers to me, and all of my boys smile and laugh.
I smile right back at them and fill my mouth with a spoonful of delicious coffee ice cream.
Maybe I am a freak—but I’m one hopeful misfit, and you could be worse things in this world. True? True.
I spread hope.
I’m a hope spreader.
I guess that’s what I do—licentiously—that’s why I’m still circling the big flaming ball in the sky. (That’s the sun—sucka!)
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my wonderful and tenacious agent, Doug Stewart—D, you are simply amazing—and my brilliant editor, Alvina Ling, for believing in both Amber and me and for pushing me to tell the best story I possibly could. I am wildly blessed to be working with such smart and hip and kind professionals. Props to their assistants, Seth Fishman and Connie Hsu. Thanks to all at Sterling Lord Literistic and Little, Brown and Company who worked on this manuscript and/or helped to get my words out into the world. Much love to all of the friends and family members who continue to support me and my career—but an extra nod to the people who played a special role in the creation of this book (whether they know it or not) and the people who keep me feeling hopeful: my wife, Alicia Bessette; Sister Megan; Brother Micah; K-Hen; Mom; Dad; Barb & Peague; Bill, Mo, and Owen Rhoda; Flem; fellow Bardbarian, Scott Humfeld; Scott Caldwell (Mr. Canada); Myfanwy Collins; Justin Dunn; K-Rob; BD; veterinarian extraordinaire, Dr. Corey Shagensky; Roland Merullo; Old Man Harry and Grandmom Dink; Uncle Pete; my webmaster, Tim Rayworth; my photographer, Dave Tavani; LL; The WMs; Chris Barrett; everyone who attended the TSLP launch party; and many many more….