by Elise Bryant
“And most people at Chrysalis go there because they want to share their work,” he continues. “Being an artist means other people consuming your art and, uh, having opinions about it. Not that you’re not an artist. I mean, of course you are. I’m just surprised, is all. So many of the people there are, like, knocking over each other to get a chance to be the center of attention.”
Maybe I’m not an artist, I want to say, but I just look down at the tiled floor.
“Okay, so what are you going to do to get your words back?” He’s giving me his full attention now, the cereal milk cast aside. “You know, when I am having a hard time thinking of new recipes, I go to restaurants, read cookbooks . . . I don’t know, anything to get inspiration.”
“I tried that already. I’ve read every story I could think of, but still . . . nothing.”
“Okay, well, why don’t you think about what your readers want? Some chefs do, like, special tastings to try out new menus and get feedback—oh, but I guess you’ve never had readers. . . .”
“I have readers!” I say defensively. “Or . . . a reader.”
“You do?”
“My best friend, Caroline, from back home. She reads everything I write—or, well, used to write. And actually, we kinda came up with a whole crazy plan to fix this. . . .”
“You did?” he says. “Well, why didn’t you lead with that? What’s the plan?”
I shrug, my cheeks turning pink. “I don’t really want to say just yet. You know, it might be bad luck before I’m a little further along.” And also, I have enough self-awareness to realize it’s the kind of ridiculous thing you can only talk about with your best friend. I trust Sam, but we’re not there yet.
He nods, as if that actually makes sense. “Of course. Well, the problem has been identified. You have a course of action. Seems like you’re on your way to writing again.”
I hope so. I just need to figure out what’s next.
Caroline, of course, has strong opinions.
“We need to strategize about number eight,” she says when we’re on the phone Thursday night, all business.
“Make him jealous?” I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be happening. I don’t just have other guys hanging out, waiting to be part of a love triangle. That’s the whole point of this.”
“What about Sam?”
I almost fall off my bed.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, if he’s up for it! You guys are friends, yeah? A love triangle really gets things moving—you could just fake it to make Nico feel some type of way. That’s a classic love story maneuver.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Who’s in charge here?” Caroline starts, ready to go off on a rant, but my mom knocks and opens my door. I hate when she does that. What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to open it anyway?
“Hold on, Caroline.” I give my mom a look. “Do you need something?”
“I just wanted to see if you’re up for talking. It’s been almost a week. . . .”
She’s been trying to have a sit-down with me since Friday, and I’ve been avoiding it. I’m finally feeling okay, hopeful, and I don’t want to ruin my good mood.
“I’m busy.”
“Maybe you could call Caroline back?” she suggests, stepping into my room. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“I really can’t. It’s important.”
Her face changes at that, matching my cold stare. “Okay.”
She closes my door, and I can hear her walking fast down the hall.
“You good?” Caroline asks.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, now hear me out. What if you, Sam, and Nico end up in the elevator together, and—”
“Caroline!” Before I can explain to her just how crazy that is, though, there’s another knock on my door. And then, softly, “Tessa?”
It’s my dad. He never opens the door without asking.
“Hey, I have to go.”
“All right, but text me later what action you plan to take tomorrow! It is essential you get one in before the weekend.”
“Um, okay.” And then, to Dad, “Come in.”
He opens the door hesitantly and only steps in when I nod for him to. He’s still wearing his work clothes: a striped polo and gray dress pants. He must have just gotten home, even though dinner was hours ago.
I used to get mad at Dad for working so late, always being on his phone, but I have to remind myself it’s for a good reason. He’s taking care of us—trying to give Miles and me the childhood he didn’t have. It’s the same with the move. I was so mad at first, but how can I stay mad at him for doing something good for our family? When it all shakes out, he puts us first. And he’s the bridge between Mom and me.
“Can we talk, baby girl?”
I sigh, knowing what’s coming. I gesture toward the spot next to me on my bed. “Yeah. What does she want you to tell me?”
He eases himself down next to me. I can feel the bed sink a little bit underneath his weight. My dad’s a big man. It’s the first thing you notice about him, all the muscle and height. He has to shop in a special section of the store.
I remember Mom told me once that when they first brought Miles home, he couldn’t cry—the main thing babies are supposed to do. Dad used to stay up with him all night, so Mom could get some sleep. And he watched his every breath, trying to make sure he was comfortable, or just alive, I guess. At first it surprised me, imagining my dad’s huge hands doing delicate, precise tasks like changing Miles’s feeding tubes or feeling for air under his tiny nose. But it actually sums him up pretty well: both strong and soft.
He takes my hands into one of his huge ones now.
“She feels bad for what she said to you on Friday,” he says, looking toward the door. His voice is honey, smooth and sweet—just like the crooners on those Motown albums he and Mom listen to when they’re cleaning Saturday mornings. His voice sands down some of my sharpness, as I realize with irritation that she’s probably out there listening.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. The situation was just . . . tense. We understand how you were probably feeling, that happening in our new neighborhood and all. And that’s okay—to feel that way.”
“Are you sure this is coming from her too?” I ask, giving him the side-eye.
“Y-yes,” he says, and we both know I don’t believe him. “Yes.” He tries again, more firmly this time. “Your mother knows you love your brother. She’s just constantly protecting him from people with not-so-good intentions and advocating for him at school. Sometimes I think that just boils over and pops off in the wrong direction. Does that make sense?”
“Usually in my direction,” I mumble to myself, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. That would be parent treason.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats. “And your mom is sorry. She wants to tell you that if you’ll let her.”
I nod. “I’ll talk to her.” He gives me the side-eye now. “I will! For real!”
He leans forward and kisses the top of my head, his hands squeezing my cheeks. “We’ve actually been thinking about getting a respite worker to help with Miles . . . just a few hours throughout the week, to help your mother. She needs to get out more and build a life here too, outside of you two. And this way, there won’t be as much on your plate. I know we ask a lot of you, especially this summer, keeping an eye on him. . . .”
“No!”
He shoots me a look. I don’t know why that idea bothers me so much, but it puts me instinctively on the defensive, like how moms throw their right arms out over the passenger seat when they know they’re going to brake suddenly. It feels wrong to have anyone else helping with Miles. It’s my job. I’m his sister. And I love being with him—getting him breakfast in the morning, hanging out with him when Mom and Dad are out—even if it’s hard sometimes.
“I don’t mind,” I say quickly, quieter. “I like helping with Miles. Unless Mom doesn’t think I
do a good job or something.”
“It’s not that at all, baby girl,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “You love your brother and always do right by him—we know that. We just want you to be able to enjoy your life too. Be a teenager, you know what I mean?” He pauses, considering that. “But not too much of a teenager.”
I laugh. “I can do both. My social life isn’t that busy.”
“Good,” he says, laughing too. “Well, good if you’re happy with that.”
“I am.”
“Then your old man is happy with that. I’m in no rush to have any boys up in here.”
If only he knew what Caroline and I were planning.
Dad stands up from my bed, the springs underneath loudly squeaking.
“And you’ll try to talk to your mom?” he asks, standing at the door. “You guys are on the same side here.”
“I will. I know.”
Because no matter how mad Mom and I get at each other, we have that fierce, unifying tie between us: our love for Miles. We always find our way back to each other for him.
Chapter Eighteen
The next day at lunch, I find my eyes drifting to Nico and his friends, like he’s the sun and I’m defenseless against his gravitational pull. I mean, it’s hard not to when they sit in the middle of the lawn, center stage. With our happily ever after plan floating in my mind—and Caroline’s texts this morning, reminding me again that it’s time for my next move—it’s hard not to imagine myself sitting there with all of them.
Except Poppy, that is. I guess Poppy wouldn’t be there anymore. And she certainly wouldn’t be knee to knee with Nico like she is now, their upper bodies pressed together tightly, his hands circling her waist. . . .
“Tessa, is that okay with you?”
“No, yeah—what?” I realize that Lenore, Sam, and Theodore are all looking at me. I must have missed something.
“Theo—” Sam starts.
“Theodore.”
“Sorry, Theodore asked if I could help him carry some canvases to his car after school,” Sam continues. “But it means I’ll be a few minutes later to drive home. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” I take a bite of my sandwich and try to ground myself back in reality.
“What are you staring at?” Lenore asks, giving me the side-eye. My cheeks redden as she jerks her head around, trying to retrace my gaze, and then she stops on Nico’s group and starts nodding knowingly.
“Ahhhh, someone’s got it for one of those—” I jump up and cover her mouth, knocking over my Coke. But it’s no use, Theodore and Sam are already looking in their direction.
“No, no, it’s nothing,” I say quickly, but even I can tell how unconvincing I sound. “I was just trying to figure out what to do about this poem I’m editing for Wings. It’s, uh, too long, and yeah . . .”
I don’t even bother to finish that excuse. “I’m gonna go get some napkins.”
Lenore is giggling, and Theodore mutters, “What an uninteresting crush.” But Sam has a strange look on his face—there’s this crease between his eyebrows and his jaw is tight. I smile at him and then escape over to the student store for napkins, trying to hide the blush that’s spread to my neck now. I must look like a tomato.
On the way there, though, I can’t help but steal another glance at the group on the lawn. Nico has his hands on both of Poppy’s cheeks, and he’s just staring at her face, the heart-eyes emoji incarnate.
She’s probably used to being held like that, being looked at like that. It’s foreign to me, though. No boy has ever seen me in that way, because I’m not a girl like Poppy.
It’s not as if I don’t think I’m pretty. When I look in the mirror, I generally like what I see. I don’t wish I had straight hair or lighter skin. It’s just that, to most guys, my kind of pretty isn’t the same as Poppy’s kind of pretty—even with the gray hair. I’m an acquired taste, and Poppy is, like, pizza. Pizza doesn’t have to worry if people are just ordering it to look cool or complete some type of image. No one goes through a pizza phase. Pizza is universal.
Nico runs his hands through her hair as he kisses her deeply, and I wonder what it feels like.
I wonder what it feels like to be a girl like her.
She probably isn’t paralyzed with fear when it comes to being critiqued on her work. She probably doesn’t care at all about what people think about her or her art. And why would she? She loves and is loved back. She is wanted.
All at once, I know what I need to do.
I try to play it low-key when class starts, sitting on the stairs so maybe Ms. McKinney will forget I exist. I’ve turned in some pages. Yes, it was old chapters again. But at least I turned something in. Maybe that’ll be enough to keep her attention off me until I get my real inspiration back.
To my surprise, Nico follows me to the stairs like it’s no big deal, tapping my foot with his as some sort of greeting and giving me a line about how the inspiration is strong here. I try to do this cute little laugh, but then it catches in my throat and I start coughing, loud and phlegmy, like someone who smokes a pack a day. Nico starts patting my back and says, “You okay there, turbo?” which makes me cough even more. And soon everyone in the room is staring at me, including Ms. McKinney, whose eyes narrow in my direction. So playing it low-key isn’t in the cards. And also maybe Nico and I are friends?
My coughs finally, thankfully, stop, and that’s when I smell him. Not in like a gross BO way. I can just smell him because he’s that close—his signature scent of boy soap and sweat and grass that I’ve memorized and could recognize with my eyes closed at this point. And it makes my heart rate speed up. I want to move in closer, so I can inhale him and maybe even stick my finger through that tiny curl that’s sitting there at the base of his neck—and wow, yeah, I realize how creepy I’m sounding.
Focus, Tessa.
I pull up our list again on my computer, looking very studious and writerly in case Ms. McKinney is watching, and weigh my options. It’s not raining and there are no Ferris wheels nearby. No matter how much Caroline insists, I’m not luring him into an elevator. And I think if I started grilling him on secrets that no one else knows right now, he’d (rightfully) think I was a weirdo, and I’d lose whatever ground I have gained.
Yeah, I think I’ll opt for number two again, since it worked so well last time.
I unscrew the cap on my water bottle and take a sip—just in case he’s watching me as much as I’m watching him. I put the bottle down on the step I’m sitting on, but precariously close to the edge. And when I go to pretend to type something profound on my laptop, I whip my elbow around, just overtaken with the inspiration. The water bottle tips over off the step, soaking my legs and his hair and shirt.
He yelps, jumping up, and I stand up too, making my best shocked and mortified face.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Oh my god.” Did I spill too much water? Is he going to be mad?
“Uh, it’s good. I’m okay,” he says, wringing his shirt out. I try not to gawk at the peek of his hard stomach, the sprinkle of dark hair down by the top of his jeans.
“God, there I go again! I’m such a klutz. Can I help? I can go get napkins.”
“Uh, yeah—”
He’s interrupted by Ms. McKinney coming up to the stairs, glaring at us sternly. “What’s going on here?”
“Sorry, Ms. McKinney,” I say. “It’s my fault. I spilled my water bottle.”
“Okay,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, just go upstairs and get cleaned up, and bring some paper towels for this mess.”
Nico and I start up the stairs, but her voice stops me. “And Tessa, get your materials ready for workshop when you return. I’m sorry you missed your turn last week.”
I don’t turn to see the knowing look I’m sure is on her face.
We go up into the kitchen on the main floor of the Bungalow, and Nico takes the roll of paper towels off the holder. He wipes his neck once but then focuses on his Moleskine, deli
cately patting the cover and the edges.
“Again, I’m so, so sorry,” I say, standing there awkwardly next to him. I want to offer to help again—the idea of patting him down sounds very nice. But I’m worried I’ll reveal my crazy infatuation with just my voice.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, holding up his notebook. “This is okay, and that’s all that matters.” He smiles at me, all cheese face and sleepy eyes, and it melts me a little bit.
“Here, you have some water on your legs too. That was a big-ass water bottle.” He gets on his knees, paper towel in hands, and begins to dry off my right leg, starting at my ankle and then moving all the way up to just above my knee, where my pink floral print shirtdress ends. If I thought I was melting before, I’m the Wicked Witch of the West now—a big old green screaming puddle on the ground. Melted. Dead.
Thank you, Caroline.
I hope he can’t feel my legs shaking. I’m glad I shaved them this morning. I hope I smell good. And is it just me, or is he taking longer than he needs to? It feels like something, but maybe I’m just being desperate, set off by the slightest touch.
He stands up and throws the paper towels in the trash, giving me that perfect smile again.
“So you’re going to share today? I’m excited to read your work.”
That makes my chest tighten. Back to reality. I look down at the ground and shake my head.
“What?” he asks. “You nervous?”
“No . . . no. I mean yeah—I am. It’s just . . .”
“The work’s not ready yet?” he prompts, and when I look up at him, his brown eyes are full of understanding.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I get it,” he says. “They expect us to be these little factories here, just churning out art because they say so. And that’s not always how it works, right?”
I nod quickly. “Right, right. We need more time.” It feels good to have him validate this. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s gone through a dry spell.
“Exactly. I mean, Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road in three weeks, but it took J. D. Salinger like ten years to write The Catcher in the Rye, and that book is way short. Sometimes the inspiration is there, and sometimes it’s not. But you can’t force it. It’s not a light switch or something.”