by Elise Bryant
My face is wet, and I’m breathing too fast. Caroline is silent.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
I hear a door open, and her dad says something in Tagalog. His voice sounds stern, and I can picture the scrunched-up face he makes when he’s mad.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, Tess. But I have to go. Talk later?”
I know it’s not her fault. This happened all the time when I lived close by. Her dad would make her get off the phone, and whatever—we would see each other the next day.
But I just confessed everything to her. I revealed my deepest fears, and I need her help. She’s my best friend. Don’t I deserve more than a “Talk later?”
I’ve worried Caroline would lose interest in our friendship once she found out I wasn’t writing anymore. I’m already not there physically: I can’t eat lunch with her. I can’t hang out in her little pantry room, laughing over the silly covers of Lola’s romance novels. But I guess she has Brandon for all of that now, which . . . can I blame her? He’s there. I’m not.
I’ve been so worried that my words disappearing would also mean my friend disappearing.
I think I was right.
Chapter Twelve
I wake up to five missed calls and double the number of texts from Caroline.
Answer your phone!
I love you call me back
Are you asleep? How are you asleep??
We need to talk asap. I have an idea. Call me as soon as you wake up!
I CAN FIX YOUR WAND HARRY!!
I’m not even fully conscious yet, but I can feel a smile stretch across my face.
“I know how to get your groove back!” she screams into the phone as soon as she picks up. I have to pull it back and turn down the volume.
“Like Stella?” It’s one of Lola’s favorites.
“Yeah, but your writing groove, not like your sex groove. Though I suppose a sex groove could be involved.”
“Caroline, what are you even talking about?”
I can hear her flop down on her bed. “Sorry, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night because I was figuring out how to fix your life . . . hold up. I’m gonna switch to FaceTime, so you can get the full effect.”
The phone beeps, I press the screen, and then there’s Caroline. Tan skin, shiny black hair pulled up into a messy topknot, and these elf pajamas that her mom bought for the whole family last Christmas. She even got me a pair, which made me cry. Caroline’s sitting in the tiny room I know like the back of my hand—with books and dirty clothes cluttering the floor, and the tattered Dream Zone poster that she never took down. And all the bad feelings that I had last night disappear because she’s still Caroline, my Caroline.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, her tone probably way more serious than the situation requires.
I wipe away the goobers from my eyes and stifle a yawn. “Uh . . . maybe?”
She props up the phone on something, maybe a pillow, and throws her hands out, like she’s projecting something on a marquee. “Operation”—she pauses and waggles her eyebrows for dramatic effect—“Tessa’s One True Love Story!”
I look away from her excited face, trying to shoo away the disappointment.
“I already know I have to write love stories again,” I say, keeping my tone lighter than I feel. “I mean, thank you. I appreciate you trying. But putting the word ‘operation’ in front of it isn’t going to magically make it happen.”
“No, you’re not getting it,” she says patiently. “We are going to create your real-life love story, so you can start writing love stories again.”
That stumps me. “What?”
“Listen, you’ve been getting even more Yellow Wallpaper since you moved to Long Beach. . . .”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Well, okay, I only do kind of because Brandon and I were writing notes when the class discussed it. It’s a short story. And basically it’s like this: You’ve been cooped up. You’re not socializing—”
“Hey, I have friends! Sam—and Lenore and Theodore!”
She raises an eyebrow. “Their names rhyme? They sound made up.”
“Well, they’re not! They’re real friends.” Yeah, that’s very convincing.
“Okay, okay,” she concedes, putting a hand up. “But I’ve been thinking about it all night, and no wonder you’re not writing. You need to get out. You need to find inspiration. You need to find love!” She sings the last word, drawing it out like it’s some power ballad.
Now I raise my eyebrow at her. “Find love?”
“Yes, love! How can you write about love if you don’t have love? If you’ve never had a boyfriend, you know, never have experienced things. If my blossoming romance with Brandon has taught me anything—”
“Hey, I’ve experienced things,” I say, cutting her off.
“Daniel doesn’t count.”
“And why not?”
I met Daniel at a young writers’ camp at Sacramento State the summer between eighth grade and freshman year. He wrote these really interesting contemporary fantasies with fairies set in San Francisco. We bonded over the cheese fries in the dining hall and snuck away to kiss behind the aquatic center on the last day of camp—my first kiss. We texted the rest of summer and the first few weeks of ninth grade, but it eventually ended. He lived in a different city, and he got tired of a girlfriend on his phone and found a real one.
Okay, maybe a little bit of what Caroline is saying is right.
“From your descriptions, you guys kissed like how cousins kiss, all closed mouth and boring,” she says, making me forget whatever I was thinking about her being right.
“You kiss your cousins?” I wrinkle my nose.
“Ugh, you know what I mean.”
“I really don’t,” I say, cocking my head to the side and smirking. “I don’t know if I should be taking advice from a cousin kisser.”
She huffs in exasperation but then joins in with my giggles. God, I miss her so much.
“Okay, but back to my point,” she continues. “Actually, this proves my point! Do you remember how much you wrote when all that was going on with Daniel? You were prolific! I could barely keep up!”
It’s true. I wrote more that summer than I ever have. “Yeah, okay . . .”
“Now imagine if that was love! Passionate, all-encompassing, noncousin love!”
“I need you to stop with the cousin stuff. We kissed normal!”
“We need to find you a lover,” she says, not missing a beat. “You need to experience love, so you can write about it again. And I’m talking making out in the rain, sneaking out of the house, getting busy in the car because you can’t stand to wait any longer. All of that stuff!”
“All of those things have happened in my stories. . . .”
“Exactly. Where do you think I got the examples from? But the well is dry, Tess. That’s why you can’t write! I’m sure of it! And you just need something real to draw from, so you can start writing again. What do they say . . . write what you know? You need to know more, so you can write more!”
I let myself dream for a moment. My own happily ever after doesn’t sound so bad. It sounds exciting even, and maybe that would be enough to conquer the other fear blocking me. That’s what happens in all of the great love stories, right? The girl gets the guy, and then everything else sort of falls into place.
I think back to my writing spree when I fell in, well, like with Daniel. How frantically, urgently I wrote, even when my wrists started to get carpal tunnel. I would give anything to feel like that again.
“So, say I agree to this . . . ,” I start.
“Yessss!” She does a little wiggle of excitement.
“Say I agree to this,” I say louder, shaking my head. “How do you intend to do anything from Roseville? Is this gonna be a Cyrano-type situation?”
“I don’t know what that is. But I am
currently drafting a list of situations, moments, and circumstances that will lead you to your happily ever after.”
“That’s so vague. What does that even mean?”
“Actually I like that. New name!” She stretches out her hands again, all over-the-top. “Operation Tessa’s Happily Ever After!”
“Still vague.”
“And as far as candidates go,” she continues, ignoring me, “maybe Sam, yeah? I’ve noticed you mentioning him a lot.”
“No!” Caroline’s eyes bug before narrowing suspiciously.
“No, no, no,” I add quickly, probably too insistent. Caroline’s eyebrow is arched and I can tell she’s about to probe further, so I keep going. “There’s this other guy, actually. His name is Nico. He’s in my novel class. And he’s so gorgeous . . . it’s like a little scary? He looks like Thomas from my story.”
“WHAT!” Caroline jumps up so abruptly that she knocks the phone over. Picking it up quickly, she shouts, “Nico! Why didn’t you tell me about Nico? This is perfect! And he’s a brooding, skinny white guy. Why am I not surprised?”
“Hey! Why do you say it like that? I don’t only like white guys! Daniel—”
But she cuts me off before I can remind her that Daniel was Black. “Chill, I’m just messing with you. You’re allowed to like white guys, Tessa. Now, let’s get back to your hot writer suitor.”
“Not suitor—acquaintance!” Even that is probably an exaggeration. What do I call someone who I stare at longingly from afar? Who probably doesn’t even know I exist?
“Okay, but awesome,” Caroline continues, undeterred. “Every love story starts somewhere. This is even better. I only said Sam because I thought maybe you liked him, which would totally be okay if you did. But to tell you the truth, I’m kinda glad that you don’t, because we don’t need your first boyfriend having a Hawaiian shirt addiction.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, but it makes me feel sort of guilty, because his shirts really aren’t that bad when you get used to them.
“So, Tessa and Nico. I like the sound of that. Now I might need to reformulate my plan with this new development. . . .”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, nodding my head seriously and pretending to take notes. Her annoyed face makes me burst into giggles.
“Yeah, you laugh now, but you just watch. Boom, I’m going to make you and Nico fall in love, and then, bam, you’re going to start writing again.” She punches her fist out to accentuate her points.
“This all sounds very violent.”
“Not at all,” she says, and grabs a sheet of paper off the floor “So, are you ready to hear what I have so far? Prepare yourself.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Sure.”
“Okay, first, you gotta be clumsy. Clumsiness is a classic romance heroine characteristic. Spill a drink on him, fall down some steps, get hit by a car—preferably his, and at a low speed—and he’s going to be allllll yours.” She looks up and sees my wide eyes, but then apparently decides to keep going. “And I know it doesn’t rain there much, but it’s essential that you and Nico get caught in the rain together. So keep an eye on the weather report. And we need to orchestrate a one-bed situation somehow. Do you have any leads on that?”
She looks up again, face still completely sincere. How long did it take her to come up with this shtick?
“Yeah, and maybe we can get stuck in an elevator too,” I snort.
Caroline’s eyes light up at that. “Yes! I saw when I was doing my research last night that there was one on your campus! And you could just, like, push the emergency button when he’s not looking or something. It’s like a guaranteed nonstop trip to love town from there!”
I blink a few times, waiting for her to finally laugh, maybe do some finger guns, and exclaim, “I got you!” But her face remains earnest and open. This isn’t a joke. This is her real plan.
“Caroline.” I start slowly, carefully. “You don’t . . . you can’t seriously think this will work. I mean, did you just stay up watching a bunch of romantic comedies and write down all the tropes you could find?”
“No,” she says, sounding offended. “I left out a makeover ’cause you already look good.”
I groan, but I can’t help but smile. “Okay, but, seriously . . .”
“Seriously.” She cuts me off. “I know it seems a little crazy, but I really think this might work for you, Tessa. I mean, even if you and Nico don’t fall in love—which, trust me, I think you will, if even half of the things I have planned happen—it will give you some new ideas. And it’ll be something fun for us to do together . . . like old times.”
That thought warms me up, and I try unsuccessfully to hold in a smile. Caroline’s face cracks wide open into a wild grin. She has me, and she knows it.
I let out a deep sigh for show, but we both know what I’m going to say next.
“Fine.”
“Yay! I’m so excited! So, SO excited!” She drops the phone again, trying to clap and hold it at the same time.
“But you’re going to have to think of a better name. Operation Tessa’s Happily Ever After sounds like a Disney Channel original movie or something.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, we’ll call it . . . How Tessa Got Her Groove Back.”
“Apparently,” I say, imitating her eye roll, “I’ve never had a groove in the first place.”
She tries again. “To All the Love Stories I’ve Loved Before?”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Okay, well, we can think of a name later, but this is going to work, Tessa, I know it. I can help you create your love story. I mean, I learned from the best. You.”
I don’t know how much faith I have in this plan. I still think it’s a long shot that Caroline could help me fall in love from four hundred miles away, let alone with Nico. And it’s even more unlikely that this will fix my probably permanent writer’s block.
But I nod my head along with her anyway, throwing in a few suggestions and vetoing things that are a little too ridiculous (I will not get hit by a car). And by the end of the phone call, we have a list that I agree to follow faithfully. Why? Because this makes it clear that she cares, when I thought she might be slipping away. Maybe this is just what we need to tie us together again, despite the distance and all the changes. Caroline has always been my best friend, and she still is. SHE STILL IS! Only a best friend would come up with a plan as ridiculous as this.
Tessa’s Happily Ever After
(That’s the name we’re sticking to. Get used to it!)
Get stuck in an elevator
Spill something on him or fall in his general direction—CLUMSINESS IS KEY
Find out a secret about him that no one else knows
Go to a party together and have a moment
Even better: a co-ed sleepover. Where there is conveniently only one bed
Get caught in the rain together—going forward, MUST stop carrying umbrellas
Dance of ROMANCE. Are there any dances coming up? Need to research.
Make him jealous—love triangle possibilities?
Fall asleep at the same time, somewhere cute, but you first so he can SEE you
Ride a Ferris wheel together
Big dramatic speech declaring your love, with signs
Chapter Thirteen
It’s a couple hours later, and I’m in the passenger seat of Sam’s car on the way to Chrysalis.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, even though I know that’s not believable at all. Our drives have come to be filled with long stories about the exploits of his over-the-top bubbe in New York and giggles over something funny that Miles said the night before, plus lots of delicious treats. It’s easy with him. But today I’m silently staring out the window, trying to slow down the thoughts that are spiraling in my mind.
“If it’s nothing, then why have you been looking like . . . I don’t know, Eeyore? . . . all morning?” he presses.
“I have not.
”
“Yeah, you have. You might as well have a rain cloud hanging over your head. Did something happen?”
“No. I just have a lot on my mind.”
Caroline’s crazy plan to fix everything made sense earlier, but now, as I’m heading to school, it’s starting to seem more and more ridiculous. Getting stuck in an elevator with Nico isn’t going to do anything about the fact that that Johnson is next on Ms. McKinney’s alphabetical list. Unless, of course, we’re trapped there for all of Art of the Novel.
“You’ll go on Friday,” she reminded me last class. “I can’t wait for you to share what you’ve been working on.”
There was a kind smile on her face, as if she was delivering good news. I tried to match it, but my face probably looked plastic.
There’s no way that I can share my silly Tallulah and Thomas chapters, the ones I’ve been passing off to Ms. McKinney as new work, with the class. So far, people have shared scenes with characters having long and important conversations about life and fantasy stories with magical systems that I can hardly wrap my mind around. I can just see them rolling their eyes and hiding their laughs if I were to read about Tallulah pining over Thomas. Especially with Nico right there, Thomas in the flesh.
What am I going to do?
“Okay, nothing’s wrong. Sure. But if something was wrong . . . would another donut help?”
“No.” They are lavender flavored and have a lemon glaze, with candied peel on the top, and I had to fight the urge to lick my fingers after finishing my first. I crack a smile. “But I’ll take one anyway.”
“Well, I hope your day goes up from here,” Sam says as we pull into the Chrysalis parking lot.
“I doubt it,” I sigh, and okay, I guess I get the Eeyore comparison. “But thank you anyway.”