by Elise Bryant
Well, okay, what’s happening with me feels different, because I’m definitely not working on some classic novel. And I’ve never read anything by Kerouac, but I’m pretty sure I’m not on his level either. I’m freezing up just trying to write a basic, uncomplicated romance novel, which doesn’t feel the same at all, but I just nod my head some more. “Yeah, yeah, definitely.”
“See, I get you, Tessa,” he says, tapping my foot with his again. If this is becoming our thing, I love it. “You’re different from all those posers down there.”
I let the compliment fill me up, even though I don’t deserve it.
We make our way back downstairs, and when we get there, the class is already sitting in a circle, waiting for us. I feel a strong urge to flee, but that’s impossible now without making a scene. I wish I could shrink. I wish I could become a little tiny speck, so I would only take up the space I deserve.
My neck feels hot and itchy, and when I reach up to touch it, I feel the hives. They only appear when I’m really, really anxious. I hope they’re not as flaming red as they feel.
“Tessa?” Ms. McKinney says from the head of the circle. “Do you have your copies ready to pass around?”
“I . . . uh—”
I scramble for an excuse, to explain why the only thing I could pass around would be blank pages, but luckily Nico saves me.
“Ms. McKinney? Tessa’s water bottle spilled on her computer.” I turn to him wide-eyed, because we both know the water didn’t go anywhere near my laptop. He raises his eyebrows, as if to say, Go with it. “Would it be all right if I go instead? Just for today.”
Ms. McKinney doesn’t look happy about it, but she nods and waves her hand. “All right, go ahead, Nico. But Tessa, I want to speak with you after class about your . . . technology issues.”
I quickly nod and sit down, savoring my relief, no matter how temporary it may be.
Nico sits next to me. “So, this is what I have so far of my first chapter,” he says, looking around the circle. And he doesn’t talk us through his process or try to explain away any criticism that we may have before starting. He just opens his Moleskine and begins to read, his voice full of confidence. Like he’s doing us a favor—and maybe he is. I wish I could be like him. Or just with him.
His scene is a dream sequence, and I’m amazed at how talented he is—the beauty of his words. I’m also distracted by the beauty of his face, though—how his full lips cradle each word, how he pushes the loose curls that fall into his eyes out of the way, like it’s no big deal and not something that makes my stomach do somersaults. To be honest, I actually don’t understand much of the chapter. It’s full of dark mirrors and trees with eyes and other trippy images that I’m sure mean something else. But that’s how I know that it’s probably very good.
When he’s done, he leans back in his chair and takes the criticism and compliments he receives like they’re no big deal. Even when Ms. McKinney tells him he needs to revise most of it, he just nods and smiles. It makes me swoon.
After class is over, I grab my stuff quickly, hoping I can walk out with Nico and keep whatever was happening upstairs going, but Ms. McKinney stops me.
“Tessa—a word.”
She gestures to the chair next to her but waits for everyone else to leave before speaking. There goes my chance of talking to Nico more.
“Tessa, I just wanted to speak with you a bit about what I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks,” she starts.
I decide to play dumb. “What’s that?”
Her lips press together, and she stares at me for a beat before saying, “I’ve noticed how you’re avoiding participating in the workshop. And it’s not just sharing your own work, though you’ve definitely avoided that very effectively.” She blinks at me, and my neck burns. I haven’t fooled her at all. “I’ve also noticed that you don’t participate when other people share their work by giving meaningful critique—or, well, any critique at all. We can learn just as much as writers by engaging with the work of our peers.”
I look down at my hands and begin to scratch the side of my thumb. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says. “It’s perfectly okay to be intimidated by the workshop setting. Especially when it’s your first time. It can be difficult, I know. In grad school, I used to throw up before I had to present my work. My friends thought it was hilarious.”
I smile, imagining a younger Ms. McKinney getting the nervous pukes before a critique. So I’m not the only one.
“But actually, that’s not the main reason why I wanted to pull you aside,” she continues, the warmth in her voice suddenly gone. My stomach drops. “I make it a point to review the portfolios of all the students admitted to my Art of the Novel class. To check for strengths, style, and areas of growth that I can help them with. And when you began sending me chapters from the new novel you’re working on in this class, I couldn’t help but notice some . . . similarities with the chapters of another manuscript in your portfolio.”
She gives me a hard look, and it’s clear. She knows.
“As you know, and you’ve probably seen from my comments on your draft, you’re expected to submit new material in your classes here at Chrysalis. This is an extremely selective program, and we can only work with young writers who are able to push themselves and work hard.” She shakes her head. “I must say, I’m really surprised. I was expecting something different from the girl who sent such passionate emails asking to be admitted into this class. I expected more from you.”
I can feel wetness forming in the corners of my eyes. I expected more from myself too, I want to tell her. I’m working on it. I have a plan.
But I stay quiet. Somehow I know Ms. McKinney wouldn’t find my plan very encouraging.
She’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something, but all I can muster is a strained smile. I don’t know how much I can tell her. It seems better just to keep it all in.
“Well, producing new work is nonnegotiable,” she continues. “Do you need any help from me? I’d be willing to work with you one-on-one. And I know you’re working on something . . . I’ve seen you wrestling with it in class. I’d love to help you develop that.”
Ms. McKinney has a kind smile, and I appreciate her presenting me with a hand up, a chance for things to be a little easier. But how would that smile change if I told her I don’t have anything for her to develop—that anything I’ve been “wrestling” with is pretend. That they made a huge mistake and I don’t really belong here. Would she tell the principal? Would I be sent away to a different school?
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll—uh—maybe I’ll do that,” I mumble, but I can tell from the way her face shutters that I’m not convincing her.
“Okay. I hope to get something new soon. Tonight, even,” she says, her voice stern now. “And I just want to remind you that you’ll have to share your pages in the workshop at least once by the end of the semester to pass the class. I’m willing to excuse you for your past submissions, but I won’t be so lenient going forward.”
Pass the class? I thought I was doing enough to get the lowest possible passing grade, a C minus. So now on top of losing my ability to write, I’ll lose my halfway decent GPA too? This is a mess.
“Yes, Ms. McKinney,” I say, and then take my opportunity to escape.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I have my phone out, ready to text Caroline. Because I’m realizing that this plan is stupid. No little moment with Nico is going to fix what’s obviously wrong with me, and maybe I should just get out now before I, like, ruin my chance at college or something. I’m so anxious and flustered that I almost miss Nico sitting on the old floral couch.
“Hey,” he says, standing up. “I was waiting for you.”
“For me?” I just about float up to the ceiling.
“Yeah.” He laughs. “I’m having this thing at my house tomorrow. A party—I guess you could say. And I wanted to invite you.”
“Me? Oh, wow, yeah
. Yeah!” I know I’m sounding kinda crazy, but I can’t stop it. My insides are doing a little dance. “I have to see if I have any plans, but I probably don’t have any plans.”
“So you’ll come?”
Why do his words get to come out all flawlessly Times New Roman, and mine are, like, Wingdings?
“Yes.” He smiles, and it’s perfect.
“But what about Poppy?” It comes out before I can really think about how ridiculous it makes me sound. He’s asking you to come to his party, not proposing, Tessa!
Nico’s eyebrows press together, but luckily he keeps the smile on his face. And doesn’t run away. “Poppy will be there. We’re, um . . . together. Sometimes. We’re kind of on-again, off-again, I guess?”
That’s news I didn’t get from analyzing his IG with Caroline or watching him at lunch. Good news. And which one are you right now? I want to scream. But instead I just mumble. “Oh, cool, cool.”
Abort mission! my brain is shouting. Get out of this conversation while you still have an invitation!
“Okay, so . . .” He reaches forward and I think he’s about to take my hand (and then I’m definitely going to faint). But instead he takes my phone and types something quickly.
“There, I just texted the address to myself, so you’ll have my number too.” He winks at me. WINKS! AT! ME! “Call me if you get lost.”
Chapter Nineteen
I walk to Sam’s car after school, filled with Nico gave me his number energy. He’s not there yet because he’s probably still helping Theodore, so I sit down on the curb and start texting Caroline about all the new developments—the spilled water, the wiping of the leg, the party invite. She interrupts my texts by calling me, and we both squeal in excitement. I don’t even care who might be looking.
“I’m a genius.”
“You are a genius. You should write a book!”
“No, you should write a book. You will write a book when this is all said and done! Just make sure to thank me in the acknowledgments. And I’m talking a whole page—don’t give me some throwaway sentence.”
“Pages! I’ll devote pages to thanking your genius if this all works out.”
“I mean, I had my money on a little elevator hostage situation today, but the spilled water . . . classic.”
“I guess so.”
“And it led right into number four. Maybe even number five!”
“We both know there’s no way my dad will let me sleep over at some guy’s house. And that one-bed thing only happens in romance novels. I was just humoring you by letting you put that stuff on the list.”
“Yeah, okay. But now, the winking, let’s talk about the winking. Can you get on FaceTime right now? I want to see what kind of wink it was—like a sexy come hither wink or a subtle do I have something in my eye or do I like you wink, you know, with plausible deniability.”
“You want me to demonstrate?”
“Of course.”
A pair of zip-off cargo pants appears in front of me, and I look up to see Sam standing there. There’s a dusting of flour on his cheeks and arms.
“Hey, I have to go,” I tell Caroline, waving at Sam. He gives me a big one-dimpled smile as he unlocks the car.
“But we need to talk strategy! This is big. This could be a real turning point! His girlfriend is going to be there, so we need to figure out how you’ll circumvent her. I started reading this book for AP Lit, Lady Chatterley’s Lover . . . well, I’m mostly reading the SparkNotes, but—”
I slide into the passenger seat, holding up my hand and making a face that says I’m sorry as he starts the car. “Caroline?” he mouths, and I nod.
“We can talk tonight,” I say.
“Okay, but you need to try and get trapped in a closet with Nico. Write that down somewhere! It’s important.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Oh my god. Bye.”
“Call me before six! I—”
I hang up before hearing the rest.
“Sorry about that,” I say, looking over at Sam, but his face is different now. His jaw is tight as he stares straight ahead at the road.
“You okay?” I ask. “More drama with Giancarlo today?”
Giancarlo is the guy who shares Sam’s station in their classroom kitchen, and Sam’s been complaining lately about his messiness and lack of adherence to mise en place, whatever that means.
“What was she talking about—getting trapped in a closet with Nico?” he says, still not looking at me.
“You could hear that?”
“Yeah, your volume is up really loud.”
“Oh.” I can feel my cheeks turn pink. “It’s, um . . . Nico invited me to a party at his house this weekend. Do you want to come? You can if you want to.”
“I’m good,” he says, shaking his head. “But what does that have to do with going into a closet with Nico?”
I cough a few times and fan myself. All of a sudden it feels really hot in here. “Can I roll this window down?”
“Sure.”
I can feel him sneak a glance at me quickly before turning his attention back to the road. He laughs, but it sounds exasperated. “Are you really not going to explain that?”
I sigh. “Okay, okay! But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”
“Uh . . . all right.”
I clear my throat. And then clear my throat again. “Can we turn the air on too?”
“Tessa!”
“Okay! It’s just . . . I, well—you know I have a plan with Caroline.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, it’s been really good for us. It’s like we’re back to the way we used to be, before I moved.”
“And . . . ?”
Man, he’s really going to make me say this out loud.
“And,” I continue. “Well, our plan. It’s kind of . . . unconventional. That’s why I didn’t tell you too much about it before. To help me get my groo—my writing back . . . uh, well, Caroline thinks that if I make my life into one of the love stories I typically write, that maybe that’ll help me start writing again. It will, like, fill up the well.”
“And Nico is the guy in this love story?” His voice is quiet.
“Yeah, and I know you guys have sort of a history,” I say quickly. “But he’s not a jerk like Grayson or anything, right? He’s actually really nice.”
We stop at a red light, and Sam turns his whole body to face me. “But Nico has a girlfriend. Poppy. How can you make a love story . . . or whatever with him if he’s already with someone else?”
The question makes me feel a little bit icky, but I shake it off. Like Nico just told me, they’re on-again, off-again. I haven’t done anything wrong. And I’m not planning to.
“Well, Nico might not always be with Poppy. They break up a lot.” Okay, I don’t know that. But “I’m not going to make him do anything he doesn’t want to.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you hear how that sounds?”
“Whatever.” Luckily the light turns green, and he has to turn his attention back to the road. This is why I didn’t want to tell him—tell anyone other than Caroline. He’s making me feel silly, and yeah, I recognize the plan is a little silly. But why can’t he just go along with it or just, like, laugh it off? That’s what friends are supposed to do. Why does he have to be all judgy?
We continue the rest of the ride in silence, but I’m boiling as I get more and more self-conscious, which makes me more and more irritated.
“You said to look for inspiration,” I say finally as he’s turning into our neighborhood. “I write romance. This is inspiration.”
He rubs the side of his face. “This wasn’t what I meant.”
“Well, I think this is going to work. It’s already working.”
“You’ve written something?” He says it like a challenge.
“No. But something is happening with me and him. I could feel it today, and I’m going to see it through.”
When we pull into his driveway, he turns off the car, but then he
doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at his hands. I don’t understand why he even cares. Maybe Nico was more involved in the bullying when he was in middle school than I thought?
“I thought it was your anxiety,” he eventually says, his voice low but harsh. “Like we talked about Monday? I thought you were nervous to share your work, and that’s why you weren’t writing. How will going after Nico change that? It seems like it’s dealing with the problem on a . . . I don’t know. Shallow level.”
Shallow. That word stings. Maybe because I’m worried it’s true.
“I mean, yeah, I’m still nervous. But this will help me to write something that I’m proud of. Something real. I was thinking about all the old stuff I used to write, and I really didn’t know what I was talking about. And you have to write what you know. That’s probably what made me freeze up in the first place.”
There—that feels better, getting it all out.
But then Sam laughs. And again, it’s not in a nice way. I can feel my neck burn red.
“Listen, I don’t really want to talk about it anymore,” I say, opening my door with more force than I need.
“Fine,” he spits out. “Then we won’t.” And he opens the car door and walks away.
Chapter Twenty
I spend most of Saturday morning scrolling natural hair Instagram accounts, trying to find the perfect style for tonight. It’s a good distraction from worrying about what Sam said and whether or not he’s right.
I finally find a style I like with a few diagonal braids in the front and a low poof in the back, and I think my hair might be long enough to do it. But it also means I’ll have to ask for help. No matter how many times I practiced on my American Girl doll growing up, I can’t French braid. I can barely even regular braid.
I find Mom in the living room under a blanket, even though it’s not cold, watching some city of the Real Housewives—they all look the same to me. I extend my phone like an olive branch.
“Can you do this for me?”