by Elise Bryant
“Oh, them,” Theodore responds, rolling his eyes.
“More theater kids?”
“No . . . well, actually I think Grayson may be in the theater department, but he’s strictly the highbrow stuff, no musicals,” Lenore says, talking loud and blatantly staring at the group. I wish she would turn around. “Those are the founders’ kids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Their parents are super rich and donated all the money to start the school ten years ago, just so their precious prodigies could go here one day,” Theodore explains, his face full of disdain. “So they, by default, think they’re the shit even though their talent is remedial, at best.”
“Theo’s just bitter because Poppy—that’s the girl—beat him out for a featured gallery in the winter gala freshman and sophomore year,” Lenore laughs.
“And I deserve to be bitter. . . . Poppy’s work would make more sense as the stock photos in frames at West Elm,” Theodore scoffs, returning to his sketch pad again. “I mean, how many gouache beach landscapes does the world need? Really.”
“She looks cool. . . . I mean, I like her hair,” I say feebly.
“Oh, don’t let her looks fool you,” he mutters. “Her exterior may be manic pixie dream girl, but inside she’s all Regina George.”
“Anyway,” Lenore goes on, “Poppy is in visual arts. Rhys—the ginger—is in film, I think, and the guy in the middle is Nico. He’s in creative writing, like you. None of the rules we just explained to you apply to those kids. Money and status trump conservatory when it comes to social groups here, and they’ve got that to spare. They basically run this place.”
Nico is in creative writing, like me. I try to steal another quick glance at him, but when I look up, my view is blocked by Sam, lumbering across the lawn to our group. His corduroy jacket is tied around his waist now, and he’s carrying a lunch box. My neck starts to feel warm, worrying about what my new friends will think of him.
“Hi, Tessa!” he calls as he walks up.
“Oh, is this your boyfriend?” Lenore asks, shimmying her shoulders.
Sam turns scarlet, and I’m already shaking my head.
“No. No. Not at all. We’re just friends.” I’m talking too fast. “Neighbors, really. We just met.”
Theodore looks up at that and arches one perfect eyebrow.
“Oh,” Lenore says with a smug smile, “Well, Tessa’s neighbor, I like your shoes. You should join us.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Thank you,” Sam says, nodding too much and awkwardly crossing his arms and leaning against the railing. “Tessa, you, uh, changed your outfit?”
“Yep.” I look past him, not wanting to relive that mortifying recent memory, and I make direct eye contact with Nico across the lawn. He grins right at me, bright as the sun, and winks. Winks!
“How’s your day going?” Sam asks, somewhere back on Earth.
I can feel the smile on my face, so big it hurts.
“Better.”
Tallulah thought back to the day she had first met Thomas. Or maybe “met” isn’t the right word, because they didn’t actually speak. Saw. No, that’s not right either. Connected.
Tallulah was walking down the halls of Roosevelt High, talking to her best friend, Collette, when something—the universe, divine intervention—told her to stop. Pay attention. This is important.
She looked up, and the sea of students parted to reveal a perfect specimen of a boy standing in the middle of the hallway. He was tall and thin but still had a powerful presence, like he had stepped off a runway somewhere. His dark hair tumbled over his eyes, almost masking the alluring energy of his warm gaze. He was wearing a faded shirt for a band she didn’t recognize, jeans that hugged his body perfectly, and loosely laced black boots. He was new here. He had to be. Tallulah would have noticed him before today if he wasn’t. This boy was not someone who goes overlooked and underappreciated.
Collette pulled Tallulah along to their English class, repeating a question that she must have missed. She could tell from Collete’s tone that her friend was irritated, but she didn’t care. Her mind swirled with thoughts of the boy, and also, surprisingly: “I will know him and I will love him.” Tallulah was as sure of it as of the sun’s rising and setting.
And then he winked at her, but it was more than a wink. It was a sign, a promise, that he felt the same way.
Chapter Eight
Writing has always come easy to me. I mean, yeah, I’ve gotten writer’s block before, and there are nights when it takes me a whole hour to write a sentence the way it’s supposed to be. But I’ve always known that the words are there—have always been there—floating in the air above my head, waiting for me to snatch them down and arrange them just right.
So, with everything I’ve worried about today and everything that’s gone wrong, I’m not anxious about the actual writing. I’ve been looking forward to it, actually—the beacon at the end of this weird, exhausting, not-perfect day. At least I’ll have time to write. I can catch up with my characters, find the peace that’s always waiting for me on my laptop screen, and send Caroline a new chapter tonight. Maybe two.
At the end of lunch, I follow Sam, Theodore, and Lenore back into the main building for conservatory classes. But Sam and Theodore wave goodbye at the second and third floors, and by the time I reach the fifth floor with the frenzied tide of students, I realize I have no idea where I’m going.
“Oh, that’s back at the house,” Lenore says, glancing quickly at my schedule where it says BB instead of a room number next to Art of the Novel. “Everyone calls it the Bungalow.
“See you later, girl,” she calls with a sympathetic smile before flitting off to her class.
I turn around and fight my way back down the crowded staircase. It takes a while, a fish swimming upstream, and my heart is beating fast when I finally reach the ground floor again and the final bell rings. I’m late.
I run across the now-empty lawn, trying to ignore my rising panic, and scramble up the steps of the brown house I was sitting on the porch of not too long ago. I can’t believe I wasted so much time, that I didn’t check my schedule. I studied it like a sacred text all week. How did I miss that?
I open the bright yellow door of the old house, the Bungalow, and it lets out a loud creak that’s jarring in the silent room. Where is everyone?
“Hello?” My whisper sounds like a yell and each footstep a thud. I walk past what would be a living room in any normal house, three couches arranged with no coffee table in the middle.
I walk around a staircase in the middle of the house and through an empty kitchen. I’m just about to give up and go ask someone in the office for help when I hear the faint tinkle of laughter and voices coming from a door, slightly ajar, that I missed before. A basement. I didn’t even know houses in Southern California had basements. I open the door hesitantly, revealing a set of narrow stairs, and the voices get louder.
You’re okay, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and then make my way down the stairs.
The first thing I notice is the books. It’s impossible not to. Every inch of wall space in the large room, floor to ceiling, is covered with full shelves. And more random stacks populate every corner, table surface, and even a few spots on the stairs. The beautiful sight of so many books makes my heart soar. I want to run around, stroking the spines and singing like Belle.
But the second thing I notice is the eyes—ten pairs of eyes, to be exact—staring at me. There are tables and chairs and even some beanbags around the room, but everyone is sitting in a circle in the middle. And they’re all silent, pursed lips and assessing eyes, as if I’ve interrupted some secret meeting.
“Art of the Novel?” I ask, my voice small.
“Yes, dear,” says the woman at the far end of the circle, who I know is Lorelei McKinney. “I’ll excuse the tardy today because I know you’re new to us, but don’t make it a habit.”
Ms. McKinney looks different from the pictures I pulled up wh
en Googling her online. Her blond hair is darker, tinged with gray, and her acne scars are more apparent without Photoshop. I don’t know why I expected her to dress like a carnival fortune-teller or something—scarves and hippie-dippie skirts—but she’s just wearing faded jeans, a plain blue shirt, and Converse. Nothing about her says “Published author of a successful adult fantasy series, beloved by a small but dedicated fanbase.” But I guess there’s not much money in that market for people other than the Game of Thrones guy. Otherwise, why would she be here in a basement surrounded by teenagers? Regardless, though, I’m excited to learn from her, and my neck is burning red thinking that I’ve already given a bad impression.
“Mmm-hmm. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” There’s no room for me in the tight circle, so I sit in another chair off to the side, trying to keep my head down. But to my horror, she doesn’t continue. Instead she keeps looking at me.
“You’re Tessa, right? Please join the class.” She gestures to a couple of the students, and they move their chairs apart, making room for me.
I squeeze between one of the fedora guys I saw at lunch and a girl with the cover of Pride and Prejudice on her shirt, adjusting the scarf around my waist as I sit down. Ms. McKinney nods before finally continuing.
“As I said, for this upper division course, the structure of the class will be fairly loose. We might begin the period with brief lessons on topics of interest, maybe some questions if they come up, but you will have most of the time to yourselves to write. Because that is truly what will get your novels completed.”
I feel my shoulders relax a bit. That I can do.
“At the end of the day, we will come together and workshop the writing of one student. We will be going through your names alphabetically, so there’s no argument about who gets to share. And no one dominates the time by sharing every day.” She shoots a good-natured look at Fedora, and everyone in the room, except me, laughs knowingly.
What was that? Workshop?
“And, of course, you will also submit whatever you’re working on to me weekly, so I can offer you feedback. I promise that the rumors aren’t true. I’m not in the least bit mean.” She looks around the circle and smirks. “If your writing is good, that is.”
The rest of the class laughs again, but I can feel my heart beating fast again, my chest heavy. Stop it, anxiety, I want to say. Haven’t I already been through enough today?
But my mind starts to spiral, thinking about what she just said. Caroline was right. Of course she was. I am going to have to share my writing with everyone in this class. They’re going to be able to read it and tell me how much they hate it, in person, not hidden behind a computer screen, but right here to my face. And then I’m going to have to submit it to this published author, who will rip it apart with even more skill, who will realize what a fake I am, and that I write nothing more than silly kissing scenes and trope-y plots.
Somehow, in all of my fantasies about this school, I never once considered actually sharing my writing with other people. Not until Caroline broached the topic last night. I realize now, looking around at all these people who aren’t at all shocked, just how stupid that was.
How did I not see this coming?
Ms. McKinney is going on now about the winter gala and how someone will be chosen to read there or something, but I can’t focus on her words. My mind is a mess and her voice is both too quiet and too loud at the same time, like I’m listening from underwater.
The sound of the basement door opening and footsteps down the stairs pulls me out of it, and I look up to see an angel. I blink a few times, rub my eyes that were embarrassingly starting to water, but he’s still there.
Thomas. No, Nico. The gorgeous writer I spotted at lunch.
“Hello, Nico,” Ms. McKinney says. “I was just discussing how I will select the lucky reader for the gala. Join us.”
I should be mad that he didn’t get the stern tardy warning like me, but instead I’m impressed.
He drags a chair across the hardwood floor, and nods at Fedora, who quickly scoots to the side. And then, just like that, Nico is sitting next to me, so close that I can smell his intoxicating scent of boy soap and sweat and grass. He smiles at me, revealing shiny white teeth behind his full lips. He could model for Crest. He could model for anything.
“Hey,” he says, sticking out his chin in a way that’s effortlessly cool.
I let out a sound that’s a mix between a mumble and a squeak, but thankfully Ms. McKinney starts talking, hopefully masking my mortification.
There’s some more information about the gala, then something about format and maybe grading? But the words continue to float past me until she claps her hands. “Okay, well, that’s enough of me jabbering. You can get started now, and we’ll skip the workshop today, give you a chance to find your inspiration. Feel free to go where you’re comfortable.”
Nico and I both stand up at the same time, but I scurry over to a beanbag in the corner, avoiding eye contact. I pull my laptop out of my bag and open up the Colette story. Here. This is something I can do now. Caroline will be asking for it tonight, and now that Tallulah and Thomas have finally kissed, I can let that story rest for a bit. But I can’t stop my thoughts from creeping back to what Ms. McKinney said about sharing our work. I could never read a page of this book, or my Tallulah one, to this class. And definitely not to Nico. The class would roll their eyes. They would laugh at me. Nico would never see me as a true artist, like he surely is.
Taking a deep breath, though, I try to push the worries away. Because that’s not happening now. I can figure it out when it comes time.
Last place I left off, after the mix-up with one guy outside her window and another one in her room, Colette was meeting Jasper at the park in their neighborhood. It was late, a cold November night, and they were huddled together at the top of the slide, Jasper’s thick peacoat keeping them both warm. This is an important moment. Jasper knows about Jack now, and he’s demanding that Colette finally choose. I thought up about half of the dialogue in the shower this morning.
But with my hands ready on the keys, two hours to write in front of me . . . nothing.
No words come.
I look up, and everyone else around me is writing. Fedora is tapping away at a keyboard attached to his iPad. Pride and Prejudice is scribbling in a spiral notebook. Nico, of course, looks perfect hunched over his Moleskine, loose brown curls cascading over his face.
I have to write.
Colette clutches Jasper’s hand against her chest.
I hit delete. That’s not right. Too bow-chicka-wow-wow. They’ve only kissed once. And “clutches” makes it sound like some old-fashioned novel where people have fainting couches or something.
I try again.
Colette holds Jasper’s hand against her cheek.
Okay, maybe, but then says what? What does she decide?
Backspace again. Backspace freaking backspace. Colette says nothing, does nothing. Because my mind is blank. Nothing.
I’m suddenly aware of how loud it sounds when I’m tapping the keys, and now that I’m not typing anything, do the others notice the silence? Can they tell I’m not being productive like them?
And then there’s the fact that I don’t type like I’m supposed to, the way the others use all of their fingers over the QWERTY keyboard. I never learned, and I can hunt and peck pretty quick now—it would only slow me down to change it up at this point. Not that it even matters. Nothing is coming out anyway. Can they tell?
“I think I’m going to try writing in my notebook,” I whisper to no one in particular, and only Ms. McKinney looks up, giving me a small smile, like she’s humoring me or something. She probably knows I don’t belong here. She was probably laughing when she read my pleading emails after reviewing whatever my mom put in my portfolio. She was probably just being nice when she let me into the class, her act of charity for the semester.
I want to shrink myself.
I want to disa
ppear.
With my notebook and my favorite felt-tip pen, still the words don’t come. I look over the loose outline I wrote for the story, and it inspires nothing. Finally, paranoid that everyone, especially Nico, can tell that I’m not writing, I begin to write “I don’t know” in my notebook.
Over and over again.
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
I furrow my eyebrows occasionally, tap my chin like I’m thinking, and keep going until however long it takes for the class to end. Hours.
My words are always there. They wake me up, yelling for attention, in the middle of the night. They whisper in my ear during boring classes.
My words are the reason I somehow tricked this school into admitting me.
But now there’s nothing.
My words are gone.
Chapter Nine
I barely speak to Sam the whole drive home, brushing off all his first-day questions with one-word answers. The corners of my eyes burn with tears, but I push them away. I try to keep my mind clear, so it’s open for whatever flicker of an idea comes my way. I try to dream up the next scene in my head, because sometimes the inspiration is stubborn like that, only coming to me when I’m not in front of my computer screen.
But it’s no use.
Nothing.
I throw a “Thank you” to Sam over my shoulder, trying not to feel bad about how puzzled he seems, and then power walk across the street to my house. Chrysalis gets out later in the day, almost five, but still—it’s surprising that everyone is there, gathered in the kitchen, when I walk inside. It smells like pizza, and I don’t ask if it was ordered specifically for this household.
“There’s our writer girl!” Dad calls, a huge smile on his face when he sees me. He was hunched over a slice at the counter, his phone open to work emails next to him, but he comes over to me and pulls me into a tight hug, kissing the top of my head.
I wish he wouldn’t call me that.
“Tessie, there’s pizza!” Miles yells from the table. He sits at the table alone, and Mom is mobile with her meal, taking quick bites while she puts the dishes away.