by Elise Bryant
For another girl.
Not me.
We’re planted firmly in the friend zone, no matter what Caroline says.
I usually dread going to Art of the Novel, as it’s a reminder of my big failure. But when Friday comes along, I’m looking forward to it. Mostly because I know I’ll see Nico without Poppy, and there’s always a small chance that I’ll get some answers, whatever they will be. But also because I hope it’ll shake these other weird thoughts about Sam out of my head, which are probably just popping up because of the doubt Caroline filled me with.
I get there a little early and take a seat on a beanbag in the corner. I pull out my laptop and pretend to stare thoughtfully at a draft on my screen, but really it’s just the happily ever after plan. Maybe if I study it enough, my next steps will become clear.
Ms. McKinney nods at me silently from the front of the room as the rest of the class begins to file in, and I avert my eyes quickly, worried that she’ll want to talk to me again. I’ve been sending her “new” work, as that was the deal during our awkward conversation after class back in September. And by “new” work, I don’t really mean new work, of course—just chapters from Colette’s story now, instead of Tallulah’s. Hopefully that’s doing the trick. I don’t know for sure, though, because I still haven’t gotten the courage to dive into her comments again. I’m still paralyzed from the last ones.
But she hasn’t asked me to share again. She even skipped over my name when it came up the second time around, maybe assuming that I’ll fulfill my requirement at the very end of the semester. I don’t know if I should feel grateful or embarrassed. I guess I feel a little bit of both.
“What’s that you’re working on?” Nico asks, tapping my foot with his. I fight the urge to slam my computer shut.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ve, uh, missed you this week,” he says, sitting down next to me. I, not we. “You not going to eat lunch with us anymore?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just, you know, weird?” I don’t need to elaborate beyond that, right? I mean, surely he’s not oblivious to the fact that it’s weird.
He gives me this look that makes my skin feel prickly, eyes smoldering under his dark lashes and full lips pursed. This is not the kind of look you give someone when you’re letting them down easy. It’s the opposite. It’s an I want you look. So my whole body tenses in anticipation when he starts. “Tessa, I—”
Ms. McKinney claps her hands together at the front of the room. “All right, I know you all are getting started. I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to skip our workshop at the end of today—sorry, Lizbeth, next week—because I have a special announcement for you at the end.”
Nico wrinkles his nose at me and smiles, mouthing, “Talk later.” He takes out his Moleskine and a pen, and I close my mouth real quick, realizing it was hanging open. I am already fantasizing about a million possibilities that could have come after “Tessa, I—”
. . . finally ended things with Poppy at lunch because I realized that it’s you. It’s always been you.
. . . really need you to stop looking at me all creeperlike. Also I saw what’s on your computer screen. I’m going to alert the authorities.
. . . want you to follow me upstairs right now, so we can finish what we started on Halloween.
I start typing all of these on my computer, hoping that maybe it’ll jump-start some writing. I’ll take anything at this point. At least I look like I’m busy.
I feel something soft and warm brush up against my thigh, and I see it’s his pinkie finger, tentative at first and then followed by his whole hand. I don’t think about Poppy or Sam or Ms. McKinney or even Fedora, who is definitely sneaking glances at us from his stool a few feet over—I just slide my hand under his and squeeze. This is not in my head. This is real and definitely happening. It’s all the answer I need right now.
When class is almost over, Ms. McKinney calls us back to the circle, and she is beaming with whatever special news she has to share. Other people seem to be anticipating something too. The girl who always wears cat-print dresses—Angelica, I think her name is—is nervously biting her nails, and Fedora is tapping his foot so rapidly next to me, it’s shaking my chair.
“So, as you know, the winter gala is approaching, and it is time for me to select who will be our honored writer from this course.”
Oh, so that’s what’s going on.
I should feel embarrassed by how out of touch I am. I mean, if I was a real writer, I would feel just as nervous as they are. There might actually be a chance of her calling my name. But instead I’m thinking about what I’ll say to Nico when class is over . . . what we’ll do.
“As you know, this was an incredibly hard decision because this class is filled with such immense talent. It is truly an honor to be your instructor. Just because you are not selected to read at the gala does not mean that you should doubt your ability in any way.” Except for you, Tessa. None of what I’m saying applies to you. “Anyway, I suppose I’ll just get on with it already. The honored student for the gala will be . . .” Everyone in the room takes a collective breath. “Nico Lucchese!”
All of the confidence that he usually has seems to melt away, and he looks shocked, leaning back in his chair with his mouth moving but no sounds coming out. I wish it was socially acceptable for me to jump into his lap and give him a giant kiss right now, because that’s exactly what I want to do, I’m so proud of him. I just give him a big smile instead. And when everyone swarms him with congratulations and handshakes and pats on the back, I just pack up my stuff and head out—because that’s really all he needs or expects from me, right? I feel weird just hanging around, especially when I’m already dodging meaningful looks from Ms. McKinney, because, I mean, what am I waiting for even? No matter what hand-holding just took place, we’re still friends and that’s all.
As I reach the top of the basement stairs, though, I hear him calling my name, and when I turn, he’s right there.
“Tessa, hey! I didn’t want you to leave,” he says, his cheeks adorably flushing pink. “We still need to talk. And I, uh—yeah, I’m not really sure what to say . . . it’s just . . .”
He’s trying to let me down easy. I know it. It’s the only thing that could be coming. He’s this talented, celebrated writer who already has a hot girlfriend, and I’m just me. I decide to make it easy for him.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving it off like it’s no big deal and I’m just incredibly casual. “And congratulations, Nico. Though I’m not surprised she picked you at all. Your parents are going to be so proud.”
I turn to leave, but then he grabs my hand and pulls me into a hug. One arm is around my shoulders and the other envelops my lower back and his breath is warm in my ear and I think I might faint. And yeah, I know I sound like someone from a Disney Channel original movie going on about something as G-rated as a hug, but it feels special. Important. And I think I could just stay like this forever, but we’re interrupted (Again! I mean, come on, universe!) by someone clearing their throat.
We move apart to see Poppy standing there, arms crossed and looking pissed.
I don’t wait to see what that could mean. “Well, congratulations again. It’s really, really awesome!” And I speed past her without making eye contact, to find Sam and my ride home.
While we’re driving home, I compose at least ten texts to Caroline about the hug, but I delete them all. It doesn’t feel right to send her anything. What is she going to think about a silly hug, when she’s considering something so much more important?
Anyway, drafting the texts that will never be sent is a good distraction from Sam and all of my confusing feelings about his jaw and arms and lips and perpetually sweet Bath & Body Works candle scent. Which is even more apparent as he reaches over me to grab his phone charger from the glove box at a red light, his whole body leaning over my thighs. My stomach does strange flip-floppy things. When we pull into his drive
way, I jump out of the car before he’s even turned the engine off and sprint to my house.
“Uh, bye?” he calls after me, and I wave quickly, anxious to escape to the quiet of my house and have some time to figure out whatever’s going on in my brain.
Except when I get there, Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen. And she’s not pacing or cleaning or full of the frenetic, busy movement she usually is. Instead she’s eerily quiet and still, facing the doorway like she was waiting for me.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about school, Tessa?” she asks, her voice low and measured.
What could this be about? Did Poppy call my mom to tell on me or something?
“I don’t know . . . no?” I can see from her eyes narrowing and her arms crossing that that was the wrong answer.
“I was looking up your grades online . . .”
Oh no.
“And I saw that you’re failing your Art of the Novel class. According to Ms. McKinney’s grade book, you’re missing several assignments and have only gotten partial credit for the rest.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.
Of course I wasn’t fooling Ms. McKinney after all. My heart sinks.
“Tessa, what is going on?”
I stare at her face, her jaw tight and her blue eyes watery. There’s anger there, but more than that . . . disappointment. It’s the same way she and my dad have been looking at me for weeks.
Seeing her looking at me that way makes me break, and before I know it, I’m crying. And not just a few drops—the for-real kind, dripping snot and all.
“I couldn’t—I couldn’t—write!” I choke out between sobs. “I tried! I’m trying! But the words—don’t come! I’m stuck! And Ms. McKinney knows . . . and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be at Chrys— I think it’s all a mistake!”
I’m not sure if I’m making sense, but it feels good to get it out. Cathartic. Like maybe now everything is manageable because I’ve told my mom, and it’ll be just like when I was little and she fixed everything—when she would listen to my worries while braiding my hair and tell me it’s all right. But when I look up at Mom finally, face swollen with tears, I’m surprised to see her expression hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s even more alarmed.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this? How long has this been going on?” She shakes her head. “Sometimes . . . I just . . . I . . . I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”
I don’t even know myself, I want to say, but I can’t tell her that. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her anything.
Instead, I find myself saying the only thing that might change her face around, make her look at me with pride instead of constant disappointment and worry.
It’s not true, but maybe that’s not as important right now.
“But things are better now. Sorry, I forgot to say that.” I mime hitting myself on the head. Silly me. I wipe away my tears quickly with the sleeve of my sweater. “Ms. McKinney probably just hasn’t updated the grade book. Sometimes she’s slow with that.”
Mom runs both of her hands back through her blond hair. “Why . . . I’m confused. How do you know that? What happened?”
“I turned in a whole bunch of makeup work to her. Like, ten chapters! And she loved it so much she chose me for the winter gala.”
“What?”
“Yeah, sorry, maybe I should have led with that.” I laugh and it sounds so fake, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m going to read at it. In December. It’s kind of a big deal at our school.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about it. In the parent newsletter.” Her face starts to brighten, and a weight on my chest lifts too. “Tessa, that’s incredible. Oh my goodness. You scared me for a second there!”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and I start to inch toward my room, to escape what I just created. But she wraps me up into a hug, jumping up and down. “Woo-hoo! Our writer girl!”
I really have to get away now before I’m sick.
“Okay, I have homework to do,” I say, pulling away.
“Yes, yes, go do your work! I’m going to call your dad! Oh, we need to buy tickets!”
I try not to think about how expensive they are.
Chapter Thirty-One
The rest of the weekend is torture, with Mom calling all the relatives to brag and gushing about it at family dinner. Dad keeps kissing me on the top of my head and calling me his shining star. I don’t recognize the girl they’re describing, but then again, there’s a lot I don’t recognize lately. If I was asked to describe myself before, I would have called myself a writer, or at least someone who writes. I would have said I was a good person. But look at me now: no words for months, and permanently operating in the morally gray. Maybe not recognizing myself is just part of growing up, the storm before the rainbow. But I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.
I feel like I’ve swallowed a golf ball, and it just hangs there in my throat all weekend. I almost come clean just to make it all stop, but I know it’ll feel even worse to see their faces—heartbroken if I’m lucky, pissed if I’m not. The gala isn’t until the week before winter break, and I’ll figure out a way to tell them soon. I mean, I’ll have to. But it’s easier to put that off for future Tessa to deal with.
The bad feelings continue when I see Nico again in Art of the Novel on Monday. He didn’t text all weekend, and I could rationalize that away. But in class . . . I can’t ignore that. He doesn’t ignore me or anything. He sits next to me while he writes and I “write,” and he’s perfectly cordial and friendly like we’re just that: friends. Which is fine. Except, I thought Friday we were moving toward something more than that. I don’t hold hands with my friends or hug them like that. Maybe Poppy changed his mind—again.
It makes me sad and anxious, but there’s also a new feeling there . . . anger. There’s a small part of me that’s pissed off he’s continuing to string me along like this. As if I don’t have any say in the matter.
My face must be stormy, because Sam nudges me with his elbow on the drive home. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I study a bus stop ad out the window like it holds the meaning of life.
“Sure . . . yeah.” And I think he’s dropped it. But a minute later: “It’s just that . . . I don’t know. You don’t exactly look fine. You’re really not good at hiding your feelings, you know? They’re always all over your face. Is it, uh . . . anything you want to talk about?”
It would be nice to talk to someone, but that someone is definitely not Sam. The topic of Nico is off-limits with him. I can feel that.
“Nope.”
“Okay.”
The car starts moving again, and I keep staring out the window hard so I can continue to hide whatever my face is giving away . . . and also maybe avoid looking at Sam in the navy Members Only jacket he’s wearing. I don’t know who got him to trade the corduroy blazer he usually prefers for that, but it’s working. And again, it’s confusing.
While I’m looking out the window, though, I notice that it’s not the usual landmarks I always notice on our way home every day: the donut shop with the giant sprinkle donut fixed on top, the mural of sunset-colored kids playing, or the bright pink vintage clothing store with a rainbow flag flying outside.
“Um, where are we going?”
He looks at me like I just asked him why the ocean is blue. “To the spice store . . . I asked you if we could stop there real quick when we first got in the car? You nodded?”
“I did?” I guess I’ve been more present in my thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, suddenly looking alarmed and rubbing the side of his face. “I thought it was . . . We can go home.” He flips on his signal immediately and starts trying to merge to the right.
“No, no, slow your roll.” I laugh, putting my hands up. “It’s cool. Sorry, I’m so spacey.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be fast. I promise. I just need to get a few things for a recipe I want to start tonight, an
d I need this specific kind of cinnamon stick.”
“Working on anything special?”
“Not really. Well, I guess kinda. I found out on Friday that I was chosen to present at the gala and—”
“What! Sam! That’s amazing!” I slap his shoulder. “How come you didn’t say anything?”
Now he’s the one avoiding my eyes, but I can see his pink cheeks. “I don’t know. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh-uh. Of course it is. It’s huge! I’m so proud of you.” I almost tell him that I’ll be reading at the gala too, but then I have to remind myself that, no, that’s a lie. It’s easy to forget when I’ve spent the whole weekend submerged in it.
We pull up to a tiny shop squeezed between a bulk party supply store and a Laundromat in the Zaferia neighborhood. Sam rubs his hands together as we get out of the car, his face as excited as a little kid’s on Christmas morning.
“My mom and I have been going to this place for as long as I can remember. Mr. and Mrs. Chen—they’re the owners—they have the best selection of anyone in Long Beach. Everything from saffron to, like . . . borage. It’s really something special!”
It’s . . . cute, how he gets all worked up about spices. It reminds me of the time he let it slip that his stand mixer was named Ethel.
“I could stay here for hours. But of course I won’t stay long! We can be in and out, promise.”
My phone pings, and I’m surprised to see Nico’s name.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get started?” I say, waving Sam away. “I’ll be in in a sec.”
I don’t look up to see him walk away because I’m too transfixed with the texts popping up on my screen.
Sorry if I was weird today
Not if. I know I was
I just dont know what to do
I can feel my heart beating fast, and I send a response before I can think about it.
I can’t make that decision for you, Nico. But I’m here when you do.
Before my brain can spiral too much, I shove my phone into the pocket of my brown teddy coat and follow Sam into the store. I don’t need to be wearing a coat—it’s more for cuteness than to protect me from the pretty much nonexistent cold—and that’s even further apparent when I walk into the warm store, a bell ringing above the doorway when I enter. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, with rows and rows of powders and seeds and dried plants in bags and jars. At the front is a tiny East Asian woman with white streaks in her black bob, standing in front of a cash register.