by Elise Bryant
Dedication
To Bryan,
“(God Must Have Spent) A Little More Time on You”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Elise Bryant
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The doorbell rings, and I ignore it.
I’m right in the middle of writing an important scene. Tallulah and Thomas have found shelter from the rain, thanks to a conveniently located abandoned cabin, and they’re standing face-to-face, so close there’s an electric charge between the tips of their noses. And when he reaches up to pluck an eyelash off her cheek and tells her to make a wish, it’s clear from the urgency of her sigh and the longing in her dark brown eyes that the only thing she’s wishing for is him.
It’s one of those swoony declaration-of-love moments, like something you see in those ancient movies they always play Sundays on TNT. But instead of that pale girl with the red hair, my protagonist has brown skin and a fro, and she’s about to get her happily ever after.
Except she’s not, because the Doorbell Ringer is still at it.
The only people who have come over in the weeks since we’ve moved south to Long Beach have been crabby Mrs. Hutchinson from next door and two Mormon missionaries in starched white shirts and skinny ties.
I’m not going to stop the flow of words pouring out of me for them.
The doorbell rings again, though, followed by a swift knock that’s barely audible over Miles’s television blaring from the back of the house. My brother, the traitor, is on his second viewing of his Dream Zone DVD, and the person outside can probably hear it too, a sure sign that someone is home.
Enter the Dream Zone, the documentary detailing the roots and rise to stardom of the now very much defunct boy band, is the only reason we have a clunky player anymore, even though Mom went all Marie Kondo on the rest of the disks in the move. It’s Miles’s most precious possession. He treats the DVD and its accompanying booklet like some sort of sacred texts.
I tell myself that if it rings one more time, I’ll get up. If it’s really important—more important than Mrs. Hutchinson’s concerns about the jacaranda tree between our houses or, you know, saving our souls—whoever’s out there will try at least once more. I cross my fingers and wait one moment. And then another. But there’s nothing except the nasal crooning blasting from the other room.
I’m in the clear.
Thomas blows the eyelash away, but his lips stay open, cradling the words that Tallulah has been longing to hear. And just when he’s about to reveal what’s written in his heart, he’s interrupted by . . . a bubble.
A white bubble pops up on the side of my draft in Google Docs, followed by a few more in quick succession.
Why are you working on this one?
Collette needs another chapter
TESSA JOHNSON YOU PROMISED!
That kind of cliffhanger should be illegal don’t make me report you
I know you’re on here!!!!!!!! I can see your cursor
Caroline’s cheese-face avatar accompanies each comment, a stark contrast to their stalker-y vibe, and a few seconds later, my phone starts buzzing.
So I guess no one wants me to write today . . . at least not what I want to write.
“Did you finish the chapter?” she asks as soon as I answer, skipping any sort of greeting, as usual.
I’ve known Caroline Tibayan since we were six, the only two brown girls in Ms. Brentwood’s first grade class. When Jesse Fitzgerald told me I was ugly because I had skin the color of poo, Caroline hauled off and socked him in the nose. Lola, her grandmother, swatted her behind with one of her sandals when she got home that day, but Caroline still maintains that it was worth it. We’ve been best friends ever since.
“Monitoring my internet activity? Really? That’s like something out of a Lifetime movie.” I laugh. “Also, hi. That’s usually how people start a conversation.”
“Okay, yeah, hi. But can you blame me? You left off on such a cliffhanger, and then nothing for days? You’re a monster!”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Me, dramatic?” I can almost see her through the phone, crowded on her tiny twin bed in her tiny room, her long black hair splayed over the striped comforter. Lola took the second bedroom when she moved in with Caroline and her parents, so they converted the pantry into a space for Caroline. “You’re the one who ended the chapter with Jasper standing outside Colette’s window, professing his undying love, his purple hair freakin’ ILLUMINATED in the soft glow of the streetlamp! TOTALLY unaware of the fact that Colette is macking on Jack in there at that very moment! C’mon! I need to know what happens now!”
“Sorry! I’ve been busy.”
“With Tallulah?”
“Yep.” Tallulah’s the main character in my other work in progress—a swoony story about a mousy Black girl with a fluffy fro and Thomas, the hipster singer-songwriter with moody eyes and dark hair and deliciously broad shoulders, who moves to town and makes her his muse.
“Well, send me that one at least.” She sighs as if it’s a consolation prize. “And have they finally kissed yet? All the pining and googly eyes are getting to be a bit much. I need some action! They’re barely on base zero point five. Not going to lie, Colette is so much more interesting.”
I smile and shake my head. “I can’t help where the inspiration takes me, Colette.”
“Your audience is waiting, Tallulah.”
By my “audience,” she means herself. She’s my biggest fan . . . and my only fan. But I’m not complaining, because that’s just the way I like it. I don’t write for other people. I write for me and Caroline.
The stories have always come easy to me. My mom said I started writing stories down as early as kindergarten, but I was secretive even then, keeping whatever notebook I was working in safe under my pillow. The subject matter changed as I got older, the what-ifs transferring to what would happen if Harry ended up with Hermione instead? And then what would happen if Harry ended up with me? I felt embarrassed about the stories, but they also made me feel warm inside, and seen. It was empowering to create a world in which I was the center, the prize, the one desired.
Caroline talked her way into reading thr
ough one of my notebooks eventually. I expected her to laugh, but instead she praised me as a romantic genius and asked me to write her into a story too. (She always had a thing for Ron.) And she told me there was a word for what I was doing—fan fiction. That made me feel less embarrassed about my stories. At least I wasn’t crazy or something. Other people were doing this too.
Soon I graduated from Harry and Ron to Edward and Jacob to members of our favorite boy band, Dream Zone. (Because okay, Miles likes Dream Zone because I liked Dream Zone. A long, LONG time ago. But I try to keep that shameful secret on the down low.)
I kept thinking the stories were something we would outgrow, like Dream Zone, but they never stopped. They just became about our relationships with my own made-up boys instead of someone else’s. Like, fan fiction of our own lives. It wasn’t like we could go to a bookstore and find many fluffy love stories with girls who looked like us in them.
Now that I’ve moved, I share my stories with Caroline through Google, instead of passing her my beat-up laptop at lunch. I act exasperated, but I’m also secretly happy she hasn’t stopped asking. That, at least, this part of our relationship has stayed the same.
“Wait, what is that banging?” Caroline asks, “I don’t think that’s on my end.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and listen. At first I think it’s the fast drumbeat of Dream Zone’s “Love Like Whoa.” But no, that’s a knock. A loud one. And it’s followed by a faint but shrill “I know you’re in there!”
The Doorbell Ringer is back, or maybe they never left. I guess I said I would answer on the third try. . . .
“Hey, Caroline, I gotta go.”
“Okay, but tonight I better get—” The doorbell rings two more times in quick succession, drowning out the rest of her demand.
Are you kidding me?
I sigh, close my laptop, and say a silent prayer that I won’t lose the faint flicker of inspiration I was chasing, that Tallulah and Thomas’s first kiss will wait. The baby, baby, babys float in from Miles’s TV as I maneuver around the boxes still littering what will eventually be the living room. He’s singing along now, and he’s turned it up even more—way past the fifteen volume limit that Mom has written on two Post-its next to the set.
The bell goes off again, just as I’m opening the door.
“Jesus Christ, have some patience!”
It comes out meaner than I planned, and my cheeks immediately redden when I see Mrs. Hutchinson there, reeling back like she’s scared for her life. She clutches her pilled hunter-green coat around herself, even though it’s a million degrees outside. “Sorry,” I say, quieter. “Just . . . I was on my way.”
I’m usually better at regulating my tone. I mean, I have to be. Because one note too loud, too aggressive, and I’m labeled as an angry Black girl forever. I can tell that’s already what Mrs. Hutchinson thinks of me. But my apology seems to appease her enough for her stricken look to transform into her signature scowl.
“If you haven’t memorized your address yet, you need to write it down.” Her voice sounds like it’s scraping the roof of her mouth, and she clenches her cheeks when she talks, as if she’s passing something back from one side to the other. “I really shouldn’t have to walk this over to you.”
She holds out a pizza box and tries to push it into my arms, but I step back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hutchinson, but that’s not ours.”
“Yes, it is.” She says it like she’s having to explain that the sky is blue.
“We didn’t order anything,” I insist, shaking my head.
“Yes, you did.” She steps closer to me, so I can smell her stale, minty breath. Her slipper-clad feet are right on the doorjamb. “I called Domino’s because the young man who delivered it was no help . . . basically threw it at me! They said it was ordered by someone named Johnson.”
Her watery blue eyes drift to a sign hanging above the front door. My dad got it made by this lady who works in his office and operates an Etsy shop on the side. THE JOHNSON’S. He was so proud that I didn’t have the heart to tell him the apostrophe was wrong.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Hutchinson. It’s just me and my brother home, and neither of us—”
I’m interrupted by an explosion of laughter rising above the piano and synthesizer of Dream Zone’s most popular ballad.
Miles’s laugh is difficult to pin down. It’s kind of like a sharp chord on the far right side of the piano, played by a little kid with no training but a lot of enthusiasm. It’s also reminiscent of that squeal a car makes when someone slams hard on their brakes to narrowly avoid a collision. His laugh is equal parts joyful and jarring.
And right now, it’s making Mrs. Hutchinson stretch her neck and step even closer, trying to figure out what’s going on.
I know exactly what’s going on.
We only have one landline in the house, tucked away in my parents’ room, but I unplugged that this morning, like I usually do when I’m home alone watching Miles. The only other options are my phone or my computer, which can make calls when it’s connected to WiFi. He could have gotten to either when I went to the bathroom a little while ago.
Mrs. Hutchinson’s frown lines, which were already cavernous before, deepen further. “Now what exactly are you two trying to play here, young lady? What is this?”
“Uh, I—” Miles’s gleeful laughs cut me off again, which makes her whole face turn red.
“Is this supposed to be funny?!” Her voice was already loud, but it’s ear-piercing now. I try to scan the block to see if anyone is outside watching us, but she shifts her body into my view. “Is this the kind of reputation you want to get? Playing tricks on the neighbors? I can tell you right now, this . . . this . . . foolishness isn’t taken too kindly around here!”
A reputation is actually the last thing that I want. But I can already see it now: her spreading around the neighborhood that we’re trouble—if they can’t already hear her hollering it now. Two weeks in, and already our chance to be normal is shot. I can feel my chest get tight and my breath start to speed up at the thought. My parents are going to be upset, and of course it’ll be my fault. I’m supposed to be watching Miles, like I have been for most of the summer, while my parents settle in at their new jobs. I was watching him. But not close enough, apparently.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hutchinson.” A kind voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Did my pizza accidentally get sent to your house?”
A guy steps up onto the porch, seemingly from nowhere. He looks around my age, with floppy golden hair that’s overdue for a haircut, fair skin noticeably lacking the default SoCal tan, and big green eyes. His faded red Hawaiian shirt could be an ironic choice on someone else—one of those fake vintage pieces that they sell for a million dollars at Urban Outfitters—but matched with his cargo shorts, it’s just . . . unfortunate.
Who is this guy?
Mrs. Hutchinson seems to recognize him, and his presence makes her bring her voice back down to a reasonable volume. “This isn’t yours.”
“Um, actually, I think it is?” Hawaiian Shirt’s eyes flick to me, and then he tries it again. “It is mine. I’m sorry for the mix-up.”
Mrs. Hutchinson considers both of us, moving that nonexistent thing between her cheeks again. Finally she smacks her thin lips together. “Well, whoever this belongs to owes me some money. The young man from Domino’s told me I had to pay for it or he’d report me to the manager. Honestly! Like I’m some sort of criminal.”
I turn to get my wallet from the entryway, but Hawaiian Shirt is faster than me, slipping a twenty into Mrs. Hutchinson’s hand and taking the box out of her arms. She glares at me one last time before walking across the lawn back to her house, grumbling as she goes. Hawaiian Shirt stays planted on our porch, though.
“Thank you for that,” I say quickly. “I’ll pay you back—”
“It’s okay.” He cuts me off, waving his hand. “I just wanted to, I don’t know, help? I saw what w
as happening across the street. And I know you’re new, and Mrs. Hutchinson . . . she can be a lot. That’s where I live, by the way. Across the street.” Miles’s maniacal giggles start again inside (because of course they do), and Hawaiian Shirt’s eyebrows press together. “Is that . . . your brother?”
“Yeah, he did this.” I nod too much. While my breathing is starting to slow down, I can feel my neck flaming, the familiar anxiety settling in. I want to shut the door and be done with this interaction, but the words keep coming out. “The Pizza Hut in Roseville—that’s where we lived before—they literally started just hanging up whenever they saw our number on caller ID, which really sucked when we actually did want to order a pizza.” I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.
“Well, you should tell him to probably pick a different target for his prank next time.” Hawaiian Shirt rubs the side of his face and looks at the ground. “Or, I don’t know, maybe not do pranks at all?”
There’s no judgment in his voice, but I feel the need to explain. “Thank you. And it’s not like that . . . like what you think it is. I mean, it is, but it’s different.”
“Okay,” Hawaiian Shirt says, cocking his head to the side in confusion. I can’t blame him. I’m not making sense.
“It’s just that . . . my brother. Miles. He has disabilities.” The explanation is as familiar to me as breathing or blinking; I’ve said it so many times before. “This is one of the things he does . . . makes calls he shouldn’t. I’m just glad he didn’t prank call the cops again.”
The thought of that makes me shudder, especially here in this new city where our neighbors don’t know us, know Miles.
“Okay,” Hawaiian Shirt says again, nodding his head now. He leans into the doorway, close enough to give me a whiff of the salty, melted cheese, and calls out, “Hello, Miles!”
Miles doesn’t answer. But the crooning of Dream Zone stops, and I can hear the rustling of him moving around the room—probably arranging the remote just so and putting the DVD case in its specific place on the shelf. He’s coming to survey the damage.
“Well, thank you. Again. And it won’t happen again. Promise. Really, so sorry.” I’m talking fast, trying to get this guy out of here before Miles makes his way to the door. It’s not like I’m embarrassed by my brother. I’m not. But I don’t want to deal with a whole big thing right now, especially because my heart’s still racing from the scene with Mrs. Hutchinson.