by Elise Bryant
“I see. Thanks, bud.” I run my hands across his coarse hair as I walk past him to grab a slice. I know I should ask him about his day—how he adjusted to the new routine, if he liked his new one-on-one aide. But my mind is just too full. I keep my backpack on and make my way toward my room.
“Now hold on,” Mom says. “We want to hear about Chrysalis!”
If I were able to have any sort of honest conversation with them, I would tell them how I’m apparently broken. How I wasted all the time I was supposed to use to write today. How I might not even belong there in the first place.
I shrug. “It was good.”
“Good, okay. . . .” She’s wiping her soapy hands on a dish towel, ready to hunker down. “And where did that scarf come from? I don’t think I’ve seen that before.”
I had almost forgotten about the first half of the day, even though it felt like the end of the world at the time. I feel like my life will forever be measured in PLW (Pre Loss of Words) and ALW (After Loss of Words) time.
“I got it from a friend.”
Dad is studying his phone again, and Miles is humming a Dream Zone song to himself. But Mom is zeroed in on me. Of course she is, now, when I don’t want it at all.
“Well, your hair looks really beautiful today,” she says, trying a different tactic. “You know, I was looking at a copy of Essence when we were waiting for Miles’s ENT last week, and there was this really cute style—Bantu ties? No, Bantu knots! We should try it. You would look so cute.”
“Um, thanks, okay.” I need to get to my room before I fall apart. “I’ve got stuff to do. Can I go?”
Her eyebrows furrow. And I know we’re going to have a big discussion now, which is the last thing I want to do.
“Mom, chinga tu madre,” Miles says.
“WHAT?” Mom yelps, eyes bugging out.
“Justin, my new friend in my life skills class, said that. Is it bad?” His laughter is bouncing around the room, and his head starts to roll around. He knows that it’s bad, and he’s ecstatic—he got a reaction.
“Oh my god . . .”
Saved by the brother. I take the opportunity to escape into my room.
After I change my clothes and fall down on my bed, I feel the tears start to come again. I try to take a few bites of the pizza to distract my brain, because crying isn’t going to help anything, but it feels like cardboard in my mouth. I can’t eat. I can’t cry.
I need to write.
I pull my laptop out of my bag and open up Google Docs. Because maybe it was just being in class with everyone around me. My anxiety just got the best of me—it’s happened before. But now that I’m back on my bed, the safe space where I’ve written so many of my stories, the words will come. They have to.
I stare at the blinking, taunting cursor for ten minutes before Caroline calls.
“Hellloooooo!” she chirps, playful and happy. The opposite of how I’m feeling.
“Hi.”
“So how did it go? Did they marvel at your overwhelming genius? Do you have a book deal already? Do you have my next Colette chapter?”
I ignore all of her questions except the last one. “No, sorry. It was more of a warm-up, getting-to-know-you day, you know? The teacher gave us a specific prompt to write about.”
That’s obviously a lie. And I know it sucks to be lying to my best friend, who would probably be nothing but supportive if I told her the truth. But I don’t want to tell her that the one thing I have, the one thing that makes me even a little bit special, may be gone.
“Bummer. But there’s always tomorrow, right?”
“Right, and get this,” I say, changing the subject. “My mom didn’t take me to school today like she promised . . . of course. She arranged for the boy across the street to take me instead.”
“The Hawaiian shirt guy? With the pizza?”
“Yeah.”
“But you said he was a big ol’ nerd, right?”
“Well, yeah . . . but I guess he’s not that bad, actually. He was very nice.”
“Is he Dungeons and Dragons nerdy? Or, like, those glasses that turn into sunglasses when he goes outside nerdy?”
“Is there, like, a spectrum or something? Have you made charts?”
“Hmmm, no, I guess not. But I can!” She laughs. It’s loud in the background, clanging pans and slammed cabinets. I know it’s Lola making one of her delicious dinners, right outside Caroline’s pantry/bedroom door. I can almost see her floral apron and gray-streaked hair, and it makes me feel a twinge of homesickness, missing dinner with the Tibayan family.
“Okay, now, get this,” Caroline continues. “They put me in AP Lit.”
“What?”
“Right?”
She starts laughing, and I join in because we both know that while Caroline is a prolific reader, her taste skews more toward my stories and the romance novels she sneaks out of Lola’s room, not the works of dead white guys. She barely passed tenth grade English with a C because of her refusal to read anything but the SparkNotes for Brave New World and Animal Farm.
“But that’s awesome! I bet your dad will be happy, and it’s not like you aren’t as smart as any of those AP kids.”
“Yeah, I know! Smarter, probably, because I don’t waste my time reading something ‘important’ when I could be reading something interesting.”
I laugh, even though my chest feels tight thinking about Art of the Novel and knowing what side of that divide my silly stories are on. “Are you going to transfer out?”
“Well . . . I was. But then the counseling office was too busy. So then I went to class and Brandon was there. Brandon Briceño—do you remember him? From Yearbook?”
“Uh-huh, yeah.”
“So he was there, and we got paired together to read this William Blake poem about a chimney sweep, or whatever. And he read the whole thing like Bert from Mary Poppins, which I’m pretty sure is super offensive because of the look the teacher gave us, but I’m not really sure what the poem was about because I was laughing so hard.”
She’s laughing again now, and I try to join in.
“Anyway, yeah, I guess it probably doesn’t make sense now. You had to be there.”
And I wasn’t.
“Who did you sit with at lunch?” I ask.
“Oh, Brandon! And he brought a couple more of his friends, Michael Giles and Olivia Roswell. Did you ever meet them? They’re really nice.”
“Yeah? That’s awesome.”
“I think I’m actually going to meet up with them tomorrow after school. They always go to Denny’s on Tuesdays, and they invited me. Not going to lie, that place is super basic . . . but I don’t know, it might be fun.”
“Yeah, yeah, definitely.”
I know I should be happy that Caroline had a good first day. She’s my best friend, and it’s not like I want her to be lonely or unhappy. But it sort of makes me feel like maybe I’ve been holding her back all these years. Maybe she wasn’t okay with our solo lunches, passing my laptop back and forth. Maybe she was just waiting for me to get out of the way so she could have an exciting social life.
My eyes start to water again, and I let them this time.
There’s a knock in the background, and then the sounds of Caroline and Lola speaking Tagalog to each other.
“Listen, I gotta go now,” she says quickly. “But I still want to hear all about your day! And send me a chapter tonight.”
“Uh-huh.” That’s not going to happen.
When we hang up, I shove my computer under the bed and do my US history homework instead.
When Thomas kissed her, Tallulah felt happy.
Cheery? Delighted?
Beatific. Tallulah needed to throw away her thesaurus.
Tallulah felt like there were fireworks banging in her chest. Banging? Really?
Tallulah felt like a new woman.
Tallulah felt nothing.
Chapter Ten
I don’t write on the second day of Art of the Novel. Or
the third. Or even the fourth.
And the thing is, it’s not just in Art of the Novel where I’m frozen. I don’t write outside of that class either. At first I hold out hope that maybe I just can’t write with people next to me. So I try my bed, the backyard, and the sunny spot on the couch that was becoming my favorite, but still nothing comes.
I decide to seek out inspiration. I reread Anna and the French Kiss and The Sun Is Also a Star and Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda and basically everything by the queen, Sarah Dessen. I scroll through my favorite Twilight fan fiction (Jacob and Bella). I read and then watch To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. I binge those ancient movies with the red-haired girl, which are definitely a racist, sexist mess but also kinda good.
Most of those stories don’t have protagonists who look like me. But that’s nothing new. I usually have no problem mentally superimposing myself onto white-girl love interests.
But still, nada.
I don’t have Art of the Novel every day, though, so my week is only bookended with the demoralizing reminder that I’m a fraud. With all of my other conservatory classes, I can almost forget that I’m not actually earning my place here. I can almost feel like I belong.
For a creative writing program, I can surprisingly get away with not doing a whole lot of writing. My genre study of magical realism meets on Tuesdays, and that just turns out to be a chance for Ms. Becker, who studied abroad in Colombia way long ago, to talk about how much she loves Gabriel García Márquez. Wednesday is Book Club, and my group chooses to read and study The Hate U Give (and they don’t even stare at me meaningfully after making the choice). And then Thursday I work on the school’s lit mag, Wings. When they asked for volunteers to copyedit, I quickly signed myself up—not that there was much competition. Everyone else wanted to write.
I should be relieved, right? I should be thrilled that no one has noticed I’m not doing the one thing I’m supposed to be doing here.
But I don’t want to spend my time at Chrysalis tricking people. I want to be actually writing in class instead of just pretending to. Instead, left with no choice as the due date arrives, I send Ms. McKinney old chapters of my Tallulah story and cross my fingers they weren’t in the portfolio Mom originally sent. When I get her first feedback, little bubbles on the side of the document just like the ones from Caroline, I scroll through them slowly, my heart racing like a monster may jump out at any moment. They’re okay at first: “Nice!” and “Love this description!” But then I see “Repetitive” and a longer comment that starts with “Not sure if this is realistic,” and I stop reading. It’s all too overwhelming.
The reality of my situation follows me around like a dark cloud. When I’m driving with Sam, eating lunch with my new friends, walking the hallways that should bring me joy—it’s always there. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. I’m terrified at every moment that someone will find out my secret. They’ll realize my admission was a mistake and send me to the regular high school where I belong.
One Tuesday evening, Dad is working late and Mom has to drive to Huntington Beach to run some errand, so I’m on Miles duty. The home phone is unplugged, and we’re watching old Dream Zone interviews on my laptop (at least I can find some use for it).
“Do you think a place can bring on something terrible?” I ask Miles, interrupting Thad’s monologue about his favorite foods. Miles scoots back to lean against the wall. “Or does it reveal flaws that have always been there, and it’s just, like, sparking the inevitable? Like, maybe this was always going to happen and I really should be thanking this place instead of resenting it for showing me so clearly that I should just get out now.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, his voice steady, and that makes me spring up.
“You do?” I don’t even know what I mean.
“Yeah, that’s how I felt the first week at Bixby High when I went to the vending machine and they had Sierra Mist instead of Sprite.”
I laugh. And then he laughs because he made me laugh. I pull him into a hug, and his short hair scratches my chin. “Glad you can relate, bud.”
Then his whole body goes still, which it never is, and when I look down at his face, he’s looking at me with bright, clear eyes.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“How are you so sure? Let me tell you, it’s not looking promising.”
“Because you have to. You’ve got this.” He wriggles out of my hug and shrugs, like it’s just as simple as that.
And I want it to be. I have to figure it out because I can’t disappoint my parents. Because I don’t want to leave this school that feels like the right place for me (you know, outside of the whole being-an-artistic-fraud thing). And I can’t let down Caroline by not sharing new chapters with her. It’s our thing, and the long distance is already pushing us apart.
Writing is what I do, and who even am I anymore if I don’t write?
Chapter Eleven
It only takes me a few more days to realize that I actually don’t got this. Like, at all.
I need help. I need Caroline.
Telling Caroline should have been the obvious next step when all of this started a few weeks ago. Except every conversation we’ve had starts with a new story about Brandon and his friends. About new inside jokes and hanging out after school at diners and meeting up at the mall. About his hand that accidentally brushes hers in AP Lit and a full analysis of what that means.
I really am happy for her, but it’s hard not to feel left out of her new life. Talking through my chapters was always our common ground, and now I don’t even have that to offer anymore. I’ve found myself avoiding her calls. And I hate that. She’s my best friend, and if anyone would be supportive—it’s her.
So, on Thursday night when my phone rings, another Art of the Novel class looming before me tomorrow, I decide that it’s finally time.
“Are you okay?” she yells as soon as I pick up. “You left me on read all day! And I left you a voicemail last night. You know I never leave voicemails.”
“Yeah . . . I’ve just been busy, uh, writing.” The lie just slips out, without me even trying.
“Oh, thank god! Not going to lie, you had me worried there. I thought maybe you died or something. Like, maybe nerd boy across the street kidnapped you and chopped you up into pieces and put you in a cake or something.”
I laugh. “Naturally . . . so, um, any new updates with Brandon? What comes after the traditional inconclusive brushing of the hands?”
“Oh, shut up! You’re one to talk, with the turtle pace of Tallulah and Thomas. You, more than anyone, know that the thrilling, ambiguous early days of a courtship is the shit.”
“Courtship, huh?” I ask with a smile.
“It’s moving in that direction, yeah,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “And for the record, what comes next is him asking me to study with him alone after school, which he definitely. Did. Today!”
She lets out a little squeal of excitement, and I squeal right along with her.
“But anyway, you’ve been writing! That’s good! But why haven’t you sent me anything?” she continues. “It’s been for-ev-er!”
My stomach feels sick with the anxiety, but this isn’t going to go away. And if I don’t say something now, I’ll just lose my nerve.
“I can’t write anymore.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself or tell another lie.
“What?” she yelps. I can picture her in my mind, sitting up suddenly on her bed. “Like, today? Girl, that’s probably for the best. It’s okay to take a break! Though I wish you would share what you’ve been working on with me. . . .”
“No, like, I’m not writing at all.” The words hurt coming out. I’d give anything to go back to talking about Brandon now, but I have to keep going. “Not since the first day of school.”
“Wait, huh? But you said—”
“I was lying. I . . . I’m—I’m so sorry, Caroline. I shouldn’t have waited this long
to tell you.” I take a deep breath, willing myself to go on. “I kept thinking I would get past this block, and then it wouldn’t matter.” I can feel tears pooling at the sides of my eyes, and I blink them away. “But I can’t write anything, Caroline. I sit at my computer and just . . . stare at it.”
Saying it out loud makes it feel real, permanent. And the admission of it all is overwhelming. It sits on my chest like a heavy weight while I wait for Caroline’s response.
“Oh, wow . . . but are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” I don’t mean to yell that, but all the anxiety and fear (and maybe a little bit of annoyance too) mix together and pop off like a chemical reaction. I take a deep breath and try again, calmer. “This isn’t something I would just not be sure about. It’s serious to me.”
“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “It’s . . . I’m surprised. You’ve always been able to write. It’s . . . you.”
Her words hit me like an arrow to a target—because they echo the fear that’s been whispering in my brain for the past few weeks:
Writing is you.
And if you don’t have writing, then who are you?
How do you fit into your new school, your family . . . this friendship?
The tears I was holding back flow freely now.
“Writing is my whole identity, you know? It’s the one thing I have. The one thing I’m good at it. Like, that makes me special?” Once I start, the words rush out, escaping in between choked sobs. “And writing is the only reason I’m at that school. And I just love the place so much. I feel like I belong and I don’t stand out because of how I look, because no one even cares about how I look, how I look is nothing compared to the people who wear, like, tails and Slytherin robes, or whatever. But I don’t really belong, right? I’m not a writer, not now—maybe I never was? Maybe I never was! And I can’t fully relax there because I’m constantly terrified that people are going to figure out that letting me in was a mistake. That I’m an imposter! I mean, I feel like Harry in Deathly Hallows. I know we’re trying to lay off the Harry Potter talk—but when his wand breaks when they’re leaving Godric’s Hollow? And he feels, like, empty and scared because he’s supposed to freaking defeat the Dark Lord! Except he has no wand! And, like, I’m supposed to be this great writer, writing a novel is like my Voldemort and . . . I don’t even know where I’m going with this—god, I’m just as bad as the people who wear robes to school . . . BUT AT LEAST THEY CAN WRITE!”