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SCHOLASTIC INC.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this “stripped book.”
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-338-33169-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 19 2 0 21 2 2 2 3
Printed in the U.S.A. 23
This edition first printing 2019
Book design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
chapter 1
I
was older than all my friends when I got my
first tattoo.
My mother loves to tell the story. I wish she wouldn’t. At
two days old you’re meant to get your birth mark, but I got sick
instead, and Mom canceled the ceremony.
Mom’s friends said, “You need to get her marked, Sophie.
What are you going to call her?”
But Mom told them she would wait until I was better. I
would be named and inked then. She ignored their whispered
warnings of what happens to babies who die unmarked. And so
2 - ALICE BROADWAY
We are not afraid of death. When your marks are safe in your
book, you live on a fter you die. The life story e tched onto your
body is kept forever—if y ou’re worthy. When we preserve the
words, pictures, and moments imprinted on our skin, our story
survives for eternity. We are surrounded by the dead, and, for as
long as their books are still read and their names are still spoken,
they live.
Everyone has the skin books in their homes: Our shelves are
full of my ancestors. I can breathe them in, touch them, and read
their lives.
But it was only after my father died that I saw the book of
someone I’d r eally known.
• • •
We w
ere lucky r eally, seeing death walk up from a distance. It
meant we could be prepared. We massaged his skin with oil; he
told us the stories of his ink and smiled when he showed us the
tree on his back with our names on it. He was ready when he went,
and his skin was prepared too. I watched his strong arms deflate,
leaving the skin wrinkled like an old apple. I watched his straight
back bend as though he’d been hit in the stomach. He stopped
looking directly at us a fter a while; the pain was all he saw. It
- 3
seemed like the sickness sucked him away, just leaving his shell.
But the shell is what counts.
People had brought us flowers and food to make those final
days easier. Little love tokens for Dad when there was nothing
else they could do. We weren’t the only ones whose hearts were
breaking; Dad was precious to so many. The kitchen smelled of
wilting petals, stalks moldering in stale water, and the casserole
we hadn’t gotten around to eating. It was like death was catching.
Mom wrapped the blankets more tightly around him and wiped
sweat from her brow. Dad shivered and his breath sounded
crackly.
Yet when death came that bright day, in late autumn, I was
not ready. I could still taste the coffee I’d drunk at dawn after
Mom woke me with a frantic whisper.
“Sweetheart, wake up. I don’t think he has much time left.”
I hurried to his side. The gaps between his breaths grew lon-
ger. Mom and I leaned close and held his hands. I wondered
which would be the final gasp, the last silence before he woke in
the afterlife and breathed again. Suddenly, with a gasp, Dad’s
eyes opened and he looked straight at me. His hand gripped
mine. He eased his other hand from Mom’s and grasped the
pendant he always wore around his neck. It was a slender, rough-
hewn wooden leaf with a suggestion of veins etched into it that
hung from a leather string. It was as much a part of Dad as his
ink; I’d never seen him without it.
“Leora.” His voice was hoarse. “This is for you. Leora, don’t
forget. You won’t forget me, will you? Please, don’t forget me.”
4 - ALICE BROADWAY