Literally

by Lucy Keating

  When I paddle back out after riding a wave all the way to shore, Sam is watching me, a strange look on his face as he straddles his board.

  “Oh, boy,” I say. I know that look. He’s about to say something serious.

  “Hear me out,” Sam says. “I’ll make it quick.”

  I roll my eyes, but I listen.

  Sam takes a deep breath. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

  I make a face. “When? Out here? Sam, I haven’t been afraid of sharks since the fourth grade, but thanks anyway.”

  Sam shakes his head. “Out here, back there.” He points to shore. “What I’m trying to say, AB, is that just because Mom and Dad are splitting up, doesn’t mean you are all alone. I’m your big brother. It’s my job to watch out for you.”

  Suddenly, I feel like I am going to cry. Not just because my brother’s never really said anything like this to me before, or because it helps to know he has my back. But because for the first time, in this moment, I can acknowledge how scared I really feel. I had assumed, though I never said so out loud, that when Lucy stopped writing my life, my parents would magically be back together. Like it was all just a bad dream. But that’s not what happened. My dad is still sleeping in the guest house, and my mom is still going through the motions, clearly a little fragile, trying to take it all one day at a time. Maybe in the same way that Elliot fought through his story to be with me, my parents really did want to get a divorce.

  “But what if you can’t be,” I say. “What if you go off on tour or something, and I have to come home at Thanksgiving and spend it with just Mom or Dad, all alone. That will be awful.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Sam says.

  “How do you know?” I ask. I wipe away a tear, grateful that we are both already soaking wet.

  “Because Mom and Dad are weird, so they will probably always spend it together regardless, but even if they don’t, I will always be here. Wherever I am in the world, I will come back.”

  I stare at my board. “Do you promise?”

  “I promise, AB. Swear on Napoleon’s life.”

  I sniff, and let out a giggle. My brother is watching me with a twisted smile, his eyes sad.

  “Well, I promise, too,” I say, and smile back through my tears.

  When we arrive back at The House, my dad is just taking the general out on a walk. “You two have a good time?” he asks us.

  “She killed it,” Sam says, unloading the boards. “She’s getting really good, Dad.”

  “Better than her old man?” my dad asks.

  “She’s gaining on you for sure,” Sam tells him.

  “Hey, AB,” my dad calls when he reaches the fence, Napoleon trotting behind. “Something was on the front steps when I came outside this morning. An envelope. I put it on your bed.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say as I go to hang up my wetsuit to dry.

  “And, Annabelle?” my dad calls again.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “I never thought I’d ever have to say this to you, but for God’s sake, clean your room,” he says sternly. Then he smiles.

  I walk into my bedroom with renewed energy and get right down to business, throwing all my clothes into one pile, trash into the bin, and stacking books on top of my desk. It’s only when I move to straighten my bed that I see the envelope lying on top of the covers, and handwriting I’ve come to know all too well scrawled across the front.

  Miss Annabelle Burns: 732 Oakwood Avenue, Venice, CA

  Feeling my breath start to come more quickly, I rip off the envelope, and a letter falls out, on her signature blue stationary: FROM THE DESK OF LUCY HARRISON KEATING.

  Annabelle,

  I want to tell you that I’m sorry for many things. I’m sorry for taking over your life. I’m sorry for not listening to you when you asked me to stop. I’m sorry for letting my own heartache seep into your world. But mostly, I’m sorry about what I did to you and Elliot. I know you love him.

  On that topic, I can tell you two things. One, he loves you back—trust me. And two, your relationship was real. I didn’t create that one. Elliot was merely a side character, but he fought his way into your story to be with you.

  And you: You are a brilliant character, AB, but I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit. You may have been my creation, but you were always you. This is who you are, like it or not.

  The end is up to you now, Annabelle. You’ll find your Happy Ending, and it’s not about with whom you end up. I am only just beginning to figure that out.

  Until next time,

  Lucy Keating

  I take a moment to sit on my bed, staring at the letter in front of me. An apology from Lucy Keating? I never thought she was capable of such a thing.

  But, more important, she’s right. Elliot and I did fight to be together, and what we have is real.

  And, most significantly of all: I love him.

  Public speaking is not something I’ve ever had a particular problem with. I’ve seen people melt down over even the prospect of standing up in front of strangers, and others hold a carefully written speech with shaking hands. But to me, like so many things in life, it’s something you simply do when you are asked to do it. What could being nervous practically accomplish?

  The question on my mind now, as I stand before my classmates, teachers, friends, and family, as the valedictorian of Cedar Spring’s graduating senior class, is what I should choose to do with this moment. It probably isn’t a surprising fact to learn that I’ve had my speech written since the beginning of the year. I planned to reference Diane Sawyer, her brilliance and determination, and her advice to young people like me to always “Aim High.”

  But as I look down at my carefully written note cards, something isn’t sitting right with me. And when I open my mouth to speak, I talk about a different woman in history. Someone that nobody expected, least of all myself.

  “Those who know me are well aware that I’ve been thinking about my future practically since birth.” I smile at the crowd, and a low murmur of laughter reaches my ears. “Since a very young age, a big part of that future has always involved being a journalist. I love to explore stories in current events and even history, and unearth their greater meaning in our world.

  “Earlier this year, I stumbled upon the story of what has come to be known as the Egtved Girl,” I say, looking out over the audience. “The Egtved Girl’s burial place was uncovered in the nineteen twenties in a moss-covered area of Denmark. She was a teenager at the time of her death, but at the time of her exhumation, she was nearly four thousand years old.”

  I let that number settle over the crowd, before I continue.

  “Scholars were able to determine that the girl was on the shorter side, about five feet three inches, and she wore a surprisingly modern outfit: what was essentially a miniskirt and T-shirt made out of wool. Her hair, they could tell, had been short and blonde. In other words, what I realized was that the Egtved Girl looked a whole lot like me.”

  As I anticipated, the audience enjoys this comparison.

  “Over the last month, I’ve found myself thinking about this girl. When they first dug her up, historians assumed she was native to the area. But nearly one hundred years later, scientists were able to determine through analysis of her fingernails and fibers in her clothing, as well as other things buried along with her, that she had traveled great distances. Possibly on foot, possibly by boat, possibly a little of both. I wondered, What had her life really been like? And dying so young, what had it all meant? In four thousand years, if the Earth is still here, what will people say about me?”

  I swallow, choosing my next words carefully.

  “I guess the message I want to send to my classmates is this: We often feel quite a bit of pressure on our shoulders, and sometimes we don’t even realize it’s there. So I’d like to offer you this advice—don’t be afraid to surprise yourselves. People thought they had the Egtved Girl all figured out. They thought
she was probably a local teen who had never seen very much in the world. In actuality, it turns out she had seen a great deal. She might have even been someone really important. Maybe she’d been someone who’d made great change in her very short life.

  “My plans are still intact,” I say. “I still intend to head to Columbia in the fall and pursue a career in journalism. I don’t do this because it was my plan; it was my plan because I love it. But I’m determined not to stick to it too closely. I have no idea what surprises the future will hold. Now my plan is to follow my dreams. My plan is to surprise myself, and write my own story. I hope, whatever age you are, each one of you chooses to do the same. Thank you.”

  I step away from the podium while the audience erupts in deafening cheers, and as I make my way back to my seat, there’s only one person I don’t see clapping. It’s Elliot. He’s watching me, and he’s grinning.

  I am just shoving a brownie into my mouth, my graduation cap tucked under one arm, when I bump straight into Ruth Epstein.

  “I could not be prouder,” she says, clasping her hands together, her bracelets jangling.

  “Really?” I ask her.

  “Really,” Epstein says. “What a brilliant, unexpected story to tell.” She shakes her head. “You are going to make a great journalist someday, Annabelle Burns.”

  “That means a lot to me, Miss Epstein,” I say, giving her a hug.

  “And great job on your final project, too,” she whispers in my ear as she holds me tightly. “Grades aren’t due for another week, but you nailed it. How you ever came up with a crazy story about a character and her author waging war on each other is beyond me, but you blew my mind.”

  I hug her tighter. She doesn’t need to know that I made very little up at all. That once again, I was retelling a story that already existed. But honestly, I don’t really care. You can’t be perfect at everything. Sometimes you just have to do your best. And a small part of me enjoys the fact that after everything Lucy did, I flipped it on itself and used it to my advantage in the end.

  “Annabelle, hey,” I hear a familiar voice say, and turn to find Will waiting patiently. “You were awesome,” he says.

  “Thanks, Will,” I say, and after the silence between us lasts one moment too long, I ask. “So, what’s new?” When I got together with Elliot, we both decided it would be best to take a little space so Will could figure out who he was, and what he actually wanted.

  “Well”—Will leans in, his smile turning mischievous—“check this out.” He raises the bottom of his pristine collared shirt, and up underneath his shoulder blade is a tattoo. It’s small, but it definitely makes an impact.

  “It’s Hawaiian,” he tells me excitedly. “I found it in an old album passed down in the family. I went into the shop and nobody even stopped me. It was exhilarating!”

  “That’s amazing!” I say, and give him a big hug.

  “So are you excited for New York in the fall?” Will asks.

  “I can’t wait,” I say. “Where will you be?”

  “Actually”—Will looks down at his feet, blushing—“looks like we won’t be too far away from each other. I got off the waitlist at Yale a few days ago.”

  “Will, that’s amazing,” I say. “Congrats. Maybe I’ll see you in the city sometime.”

  “I’d really like that,” Will says sincerely. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find ourselves in the same story again someday, Annabelle.” And with the ever-dazzling Will Hale grin, he heads off to hug his mother. I watch him go for a moment, and then I run up to him.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulder. Will spins around.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I guess … I just wanted to say thanks,” I say.

  “For what?” Will looks equal parts delighted and confused.

  “For being a part of my story,” I tell him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Yes, you could have.” Will tilts his head.

  “Okay, maybe I could have,” I say. “But it was a lot more fun with you in it.”

  “Get your butt to my house in thirty minutes, or we are leaving for Palm Springs without you!” Ava yells into the phone. Behind her, I hear Lee squealing.

  “What’s going on over there?” I ask, throwing my cap and gown down on my bed. “Why are you guys always yelling?”

  “We aren’t telling you until you get here!” Ava yells louder. I’m just telling her I’ll be right over when I realize she’s already hung up the phone. We’re headed to the desert for a celebratory weekend, just us girls. We’ve had it planned since December. I’m so excited I almost want to go without packing.

  It’s for this reason that it takes me a solid minute and a half to notice Elliot lying on my couch, staring at the ceiling.

  “Oh. Hi,” I say.

  “Hope it’s okay that I’m here,” he says. “Your mom let me in.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” I tell him, like he’s crazy, but I still haven’t gone over to him yet.

  “You’re being weird,” he observes. “You haven’t been returning all of my texts. I know you do that when you’ve got a problem you can’t figure out how to solve.”

  I nod. “I know,” I admit. Because I have.

  “Your speech …” he starts.

  “Unexpected?” I ask.

  “Awesome,” he says. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. “You never cease to surprise me, Bellybutton.”

  I hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other, but can’t stop myself from moving over to the couch. Without saying a word, I wrap my arms around his waist and his arms come around my shoulders, and we lay back, curled around each other.

  I let out a long sigh. “I’m scared.”

  “I know,” Elliot says.

  “What if we don’t make it?” I ask.

  Elliot rests his chin on the top of my head. “I want to tell you that we will, but we both know I can’t do that,” he says. “This isn’t one of Lisa Keating’s books anymore.”

  I giggle into his neck. Elliot refuses to call Lucy Keating anything other than Lisa. Ever. It’s his way of fighting back, his own micro-aggression against how she treated us. I think it’s hilarious.

  “You could come with me?” I say. “To New York.”

  “I could,” Elliot says, giving me a brief glimpse of hope. “I might, someday. But not right now. Look at Me, Look at Me have made a name for ourselves in LA. It would be a mistake to pick up and move now.”

  “But,” I start, “what if you meet some hot girl at a party one night, and unlike me, she can play an instrument, like really well? And you like her more than you like me?” These are the things I’ve been thinking about. The things that have been keeping me awake at night lately.

  “That’s not going to happen.” Elliot shakes his head.

  “What if I have, like, the sexiest resident advisor on the entire campus of Columbia, and he’s basically a prince of a small country, and he starts hanging around all the time and—”

  “First of all,” Elliot interrupts me, “never give me that hypothetical situation again. Second of all, there are changes coming our way. We both know that, and we know we can’t avoid them. I don’t know what is going to happen to us, but I just know that I cannot lose you.”

  I close my eyes, because he’s right. I don’t want to be vulnerable. But then I tell myself that just this once, it might be okay to let go.

  “I don’t want to lose you, either,” I admit.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Elliot confesses, “but I just want to know I can come and sit on this couch. This couch is important to me.” I can hear his heart beating.

  “This couch is important to me, too,” I say even though we both know we’re not really talking about the couch. The couch won’t even be here soon. We keep holding each other, my head in Elliot’s neck. “Sweet Thing” isn’t playing anywhere—if Lucy were writing this, it would be—but I play the violins in my head.

  “I love you,
Annabelle,” Elliot says, and then he tilts his head down to look at me, and I trace the freckles around his eyes with my fingers, like always. We kiss.

  After a few minutes, I say, “You’ll always be my first love, Elliot. Though given that I’ve never really dated anyone else, I suppose it’s not saying much.”

  Elliot is quiet for a moment. “You’ll always be my first love, too,” he says. “And, speaking as someone who has dated quite a few people, I can tell you that it means a whole lot.”

  28

  That’s Not What the Word Means

  IT’S THREE P.M. on Tuesday afternoon, and technically I should be in Freshman English at Columbia. That’s what my calendar says, in blue. But I’m not. Instead I’m standing backstage at Warner Bros., on the set of Across the Sea, watching Elliot get a final makeup touch-up before they start shooting.

  Yes, as in the film adaptation of Across the Sea, by Lucy Keating.

  In the end, JJ Jermaine pulled through for one of his biggest fans, and Look at Me, Look at Me didn’t just get chosen for the soundtrack of Across the Sea, they got chosen to perform live as the band in the movie’s sentimental prom scene. Clara has on a poufy taffeta dress and all the boys are wearing ice-blue tuxedos with ruffled cummerbunds. They should look ridiculous, but they actually look kind of awesome. Particularly Elliot. He catches my eye as the pink makeup sponge dots its way across his cheekbones, and winks. I smile and stare down at my shoes. After all this time, he still makes me nervous.

  “Don’t cover up all his freckles,” I tell the makeup artist, who rolls her eyes at me.

  Elliot invited me to set for this big moment, and I decided to fly out for a couple of days. This doesn’t mean I’m not taking school or my future seriously. That’s a part of my DNA. But I’ve learned to live a little. To shake things up, as my dad would say. And plus, I could ace Freshman English with my eyes closed, so I’m not too worried about it.

  I feel my stomach grumble, and I head over to craft services to see if there are any chocolate chip cookies I can dig up. That’s when I bump headfirst into Diane Sawyer coming around a corner. She’s in black slacks and her signature collared shirt, and she looks incredible, as always.