Excerpt: 'Along for the Ride'

July 1, 2009— -- Sarah Dessen presents a first-person account of a slightly awkward girl named Auden, who spends her summer before college at a small beach town with her dad and stepmom and their new colicky baby.

Read an excerpt of the book below and head to the "GMA" Library for more good reads.

The e-mails always began the same way.

Hi Auden!!

It was the extra exclamation point that got me. My mother would call itextraneous, overblown, exuberant. To me, it was simply annoying, just likeeverything else about my stepmother, Heidi.

I hope you're having a great last few weeks of classes. We are all good here!Just getting the last few things done before your sister-to-be arrives. She'sbeen kicking like crazy lately. It's like she's doing the karate moves in there!I've been busy minding the store (so to speak) and putting a few finaltouches on the nursery. I've done it all in pink and brown; it's gorgeous. I'llattach a picture so you can see it.

Your dad is busy as always, working on his book. I figure I'll see more of himburning the midnight oil when I'm up with the baby!

I really hope you'll consider coming to visit us once you're done with school.It would be so much fun, and make this summer that much more special forall of us. Just come anytime. We'd love to see you!

Love,Heidi (and your dad, and the baby to be!)

Just reading these missives exhausted me. Partially it was the excitedgrammar—which was like someone yelling in your ear—but also just Heidi herself.

She was just so…extraneous, overblown, exuberant. And annoying. All the thingsshe'd been to me, and more, since she and my dad got involved, pregnant, andmarried in the last year.

My mother claimed not to be surprised. Ever since the divorce, she'd beenpredicting it would not be long before my dad, as she put it, "shacked up with somecoed." At twenty-six, Heidi was the same age my mother had been when she had mybrother Hollis, followed by me two years later, although they could not be moredifferent. Where my mother was an academic scholar with a smart, sharp wit and anationwide reputation as an expert on women's roles in Renaissance literature, Heidiwas…well, Heidi. The kind of woman whose strengths were her constant selfmaintenance(pedicures, manicures, hair highlights), knowing everything you neverwanted to about hemlines and shoes, and sending entirely too chatty e-mails topeople who couldn't care less.

Their courtship was quick, the implantation (as my mother christened it)happening within a couple of months. Just like that, my father went from what he'dbeen for years—husband of Dr. Victoria West and author of one well-received novel,now more known for his interdepartmental feuds than his long-in-progress followup—to a new husband and father to be. Add all this to his also-new position as headof the creative writing department at Weymar College, a small school in a beachfronttown, and it was like my dad had a whole new life. And even though they werealways inviting me to come, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out if there was still aplace for me in it.

Now, from the other room, I heard a sudden burst of laughter, followed bysome clinking of glasses. My mother was hosting another of her graduate studentget-togethers, which always began as formal dinners ("Culture is so lacking in thisculture!" she said) before inevitably deteriorating into loud, drunken debates aboutliterature and theory. I glanced at the clock—ten-thirty—then eased my bedroomdoor open with my toe, glancing down the long hallway to the kitchen. Sure enough,I could see my mom sitting at the head of our big butcher-block kitchen table, aglass of red wine in one hand. Gathered around her, as usual, were a bunch of malegraduate students, looking on adoringly as she went on about, from the little bit Icould gather, Marlowe and the culture of women.

This was yet another of the many fascinating contradictions about my mom.She was an expert on women in literature but didn't much like them in practice.Partly, it was because so many of them were jealous: of her intelligence (practicallyMensa level), her scholarship (four books, countless articles, one endowed chair), orher looks (tall and curvy with very long jet-black hair she usually wore loose andwild, the only out-of-control thing about her). For these reasons, and others, femalestudents seldom came to these gatherings, and if they did, they rarely returned."Dr. West," one of the students—typically scruffy, in a cheap-looking blazer,shaggy hair, and hip-nerdy black eyeglasses—said now, "you should really considerdeveloping that idea into an article. It's fascinating."

I watched my mother take a sip of her wine, pushing her hair back smoothlywith one hand. "Oh, God no," she said, in her deep, raspy voice (she sounded like asmoker, although she'd never taken a drag in her life). "I barely even have time towrite my book right now, and that at least I'm getting paid for. If you can call itpayment."

More complimentary laughter. My mother loved to complain about how littleshe got paid for her books—all academic, published by university presses—whilewhat she termed "inane housewife stories" pulled in big bucks. In my mother'sworld, everyone would tote the collected works of Shakespeare to the beach, withmaybe a couple of epic poems thrown in on the side.

"Still," Nerdy Eyeglasses said, pushing on, "it's a brilliant idea. I could, um,coauthor it with you, if you like."

My mother lifted her head and her glass, narrowing her eyes at him as asilence fell. "Oh, my," she said, "how very sweet of you. But I don't do coauthorship,for the same reason I don't do office mates or relationships. I'm just too selfish."I could see Nerdy Eyeglasses gulp, even from my long vantage point, his faceflushing as he reached for the wine bottle, trying to cover. Idiot, I thought, nudgingthe door back shut. As if it was that easy to align yourself with my mom, form somequick and tight bond that would last. I would know.

Ten minutes later, I was slipping out the side door, my shoes tucked undermy arm, and getting into my car. I drove down the mostly empty streets, past quietneighborhoods and dark storefronts, until the lights of Ray's Diner appeared in thedistance. Small, with entirely too much neon and tables that were always a bitsticky, Ray's was the only place in town open twenty-four hours, 365 days a year.Since I hadn't been sleeping, I'd spent more nights than not in a booth there,reading or studying, tipping a buck every hour on whatever I ordered until the suncame up.

The insomnia started when my parents' marriage began to fall apart threeyears earlier. I shouldn't have been surprised: their union had been tumultuous foras long as I could remember, although they were usually arguing more about workthan about each other.

They'd originally come to the U straight out of grad school, when my dad wasoffered an assistant professorship there. At the time, he'd just found a publisher forhis first novel, The Narwhal Horn, while my mom was pregnant with my brother andtrying to finish her dissertation. Fast-forward four years, to my birth, and my dad,riding a wave of critical and commercial success—NYT best seller list, National BookAward nominee—was heading up the creative writing program, while my mom was,as she liked to put it, "lost in a sea of diapers and self-doubt." When I enteredkindergarten, though, my mom came back to academia with a vengeance, scoring avisiting lectureship and a publisher for her dissertation. Over time, she became oneof the most popular professors in the department, was hired on for a full-timeposition, and banged out a second, then a third book, all while my father looked on.He claimed to be proud, always making jokes about her being his meal ticket, thebreadwinner of the family. But then my mother got her endowed chair, which wasvery prestigious, and he got dropped from his publisher, which wasn't, and thingsstarted to get ugly.

The fights always seemed to begin over dinner, with one of them makingsome small remark and the other taking offense. There would be a small dustup—sharp words, a banged pot lid—but then it would seem resolved…at least until aboutten or eleven, when suddenly I'd hear them start in again, about the same issue.After a while I figured out that this time lag occurred because they were waiting forme to fall asleep before really going at it. So I decided, one night, not to. I left mydoor open, my light on, took pointed, obvious trips to the bathroom, washing myhands as loudly as possible. And for a while, it worked. Until it didn't, and the fightsstarted up again. But by then my body was used to staying up way late, whichmeant I was now awake for every single word.

I knew a lot of people whose parents had split up, and everyone seemed tohandle it differently: complete surprise, crushing disappointment, total relief. Thecommon denominator, though, was always that there was a lot of discussion aboutthese feelings, either with both parents, or one on one separately, or with a shrink ingroup or individual therapy. My family, of course, had to be the exception. I did getthe sit-down-we-have-to-tell-you-something moment. The news was delivered bymy mother, across the kitchen table as my dad leaned against a nearby counter,fiddling with his hands and looking tired. "Your father and I are separating," sheinformed me, with the same flat, businesslike tone I'd so often heard her use withstudents as she critiqued their work. "I'm sure you'll agree this is the best thing forall of us."

Hearing this, I wasn't sure what I felt. Not relief, not crushingdisappointment, and again, it wasn't a surprise. What struck me, as we sat there,the three of us, in that room, was how little I felt. Small, like a child. Which was theweirdest thing. Like it took this huge moment for a sudden wave of childhood towash over me, long overdue.

I'd been a child, of course. But by the time I came along, my brother—themost colicky of babies, a hyperactive toddler, a "spirited" (read "impossible") kid—had worn my parents out. He was still exhausting them, albeit from anothercontinent, wandering around Europe and sending only the occasional e-mail detailingyet another epiphany concerning what he should do with his life, followed by arequest for more money to put it into action. At least his being abroad made all thisseem more nomadic and artistic: now my parents could tell their friends Hollis washanging out at the Eiffel Tower smoking cigarettes, instead of at the Quik Zip. It justsounded better.

If Hollis was a big kid, I was the little adult, the child who, at three, would sitat the table during grown-up discussions about literature and color my coloringbooks, not making a peep. Who learned to entertain myself at a very early age, whowas obsessive about school and grades from kindergarten, because academia wasthe one thing that always got my parents' attention. "Oh, don't worry," my motherwould say, when one of their guests would slip with the F-word or something equallygrown-up in front of me. "Auden's very mature for her age." And I was, whether thatage was two or four or seventeen. While Hollis required constant supervision, I wasthe one who got carted everywhere, constantly flowing in my mom's or dad's wake.They took me to the symphony, art shows, academic conferences, committeemeetings, where I was expected to be seen and not heard. There was not a lot oftime for playing or toys, although I never wanted for books, which were always inample supply.

Because of this upbringing, I had kind of a hard time relating to other kids myage. I didn't understand their craziness, their energy, the rambunctious way theytossed around couch cushions, say, or rode their bikes wildly around cul-de-sacs. Itdid look sort of fun, but at the same time, it was so different from what I was usedto that I couldn't imagine how I would ever partake if given the chance. Which Iwasn't, as the cushion-tossers and wild bike riders didn't usually attend the highlyacademic, grade-accelerated private schools my parents favored.

In the past four years, in fact, I'd switched schools three times. I'd only lastedat Jackson High for a couple of weeks before my mom, having spotted a misspellingand a grammatical error on my English syllabus, moved me to Perkins Day, a localprivate school. It was smaller and more academically rigorous, although not nearlyas much as Kiffney-Brown, the charter school to which I transferred junior year.Founded by several former local professors, it was elite—a hundred students, max—and emphasized very small classes and a strong connection to the local university,where you could take college-level courses for early credit. While I had a few friendsat Kiffney-Brown, the ultra-competitive atmosphere, paired with so much of thecurriculum being self-guided, made getting close to them somewhat difficult.

Not that I really cared. School was my solace, and studying let me escape,allowing me to live a thousand vicarious lives. The more my parents bemoanedHollis's lack of initiative and terrible grades, the harder I worked. And while theywere proud of me, my accomplishments never seemed to get me what I reallywanted. I was such a smart kid, I should have figured out that the only way to reallyget my parents' attention was to disappoint them or fail. But by the time I finallyrealized that, succeeding was already a habit too ingrained to break.My dad finally moved out at the beginning of my sophomore year, renting afurnished apartment right near campus in a complex mostly populated by students. Iwas supposed to spend every weekend there, but he was in such a funk—stillstruggling with his second book, his publication (or lack of it) called into questionjust as my mom's was getting so much attention—that it wasn't exactly enjoyable.Then again, my mom's house wasn't much better, as she was so busy celebratingher newfound single life, and academic success, that she had people over all thetime, students coming and going, dinner parties every weekend. It seemed like therewas no middle ground anywhere, except at Ray's Diner.