by G. F. Miller
My phone chirps on the seat beside me. I glance at it—a text from Scarlett: OMG! Have you checked your feed today? I decide I don’t have time for Scarlett’s amateur reporting right now. Plus it’s not going to be possible to use my phone with rubber Gorn claws, and I just got the damn things on.
Mom pulls up at the curb, and we all pile out in a spot-on impression of a clown car. The Gorn suit is too big. It droops between my legs and bunches at the knees and ankles. This is officially the most humiliation I could heap upon myself. But if it shows Noah how far I’d go to get him back, it’s worth it.
I turn to the group. “You guys wait here. Okay?”
This suggestion is met with a chorus of objections:
“Like fun I will!”
“No fair! I always get left out.”
“I am the mother,” from Lisa and Mom simultaneously.
So, I am forced to do the ultimate walk of shame to Holly’s front door with two middle-aged helicopter moms, an old lady with no filter, and a time bomb of tween angst. And, oh yeah, I’m Gorn. I feel sweat beading on my forehead.
To stall, I yank off one glove and swipe my phone awake. I have thirty-seven notifications, which seems like a lot. It can only mean one thing: everyone on earth is posting memes of me having a pathetic, drunken pity-party last night. I don’t have to look to know.
Can’t handle that now. Must go ring Holly’s doorbell and ask if I can have back the guy I gift-wrapped for her last night. I tuck the phone up my sleeve and put the glove back on.
Natalie edges up next to me and whispers, “You look really weird.”
“Thanks?”
“Are you going to fist fight Holly?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“It’s kind of gross to think about you making out with my brother.”
“You don’t actually have to think about it.”
“Are you going to, though?”
“If at all possible.”
She makes a barfing noise. Lisa shushes her.
I ring the bell. We all stare at the door, waiting. Mom leans in and whispers, “Breathe.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding.
Natalie’s phone chimes. She pulls it out and looks at it.
Holly’s dad answers the door, registering the group of us with approximately the look you would have if aliens landed and then came to your door selling cookies. Like, These aliens are very unnerving, but let’s withhold judgment until we taste their cookies.
I say, “Hi. We’re looking for Noah?” It comes out as a question.
He looks even more befuddled but says, “Oh, yeah, they’re out back.” He turns and waves us in. “This way.”
As we walk, Natalie says, “Charity, you should look at your feed.”
I say, “Okay.” But I really mean, Later. Because I see my destiny teetering on a cliff’s edge through the glass of the back door.
Noah and Holly are standing too close, looking too sincere, saying too many words. I remind myself that it’s my own fault. They look up when I open the patio door, and both their mouths fall open. Noah locks eyes with, well… Gorn. He presses his lips together.
I step forward, and my entourage follows me out.
This is the moment when I either claim my destiny or muck it up for all time. Noah waits silently for me to say something. I stand, stiff and indecisive, until Memom whisper-yells, “Give ’em the magic!” and shoves me forward. It takes a couple of fumbling steps to recover my balance. Now I’ve got a little space cushion from the Pushy Women Club behind me, and I’m close enough to read Noah’s T-shirt. It says I SUGGEST YOU AVOID EMOTIONALISM, AND SIMPLY KEEP YOUR INSTRUMENTS CORRECT. SPOCK. OUT.
I take my green rubber head off and clutch it with both clawed hands. Deep breath, I tell myself. Spit it out. “Remember how I said that I wanted you to be with Holly?”
“Yeah?”
“I lied.”
I can’t read Noah’s face at all. Holly looks a tad affronted.
Natalie whines, “Charity, you really gotta check your phone.”
I ignore her and soldier on. “And I lied about not wanting to be your friend anymore. And about everything between us being pretend. And about not needing you. I’m a scared little liar, just like you said. I’m like Gorn.… I’m just a big fake.”
Noah stares at me with a bemused expression, like he’s trying to figure out what to say or why I’m wearing a Gorn costume or possibly why all these people are here.
“Say something, son,” Lisa prods from behind me.
That snaps Noah out of it. He looks around, nods like he’s come to a conclusion, and says, “Okay. Right. Holly, we’re good?”
She smiles and says something only he can hear. They hug.
That’s his reaction to me baring my soul? Embracing the Other Girl? If I had a phaser right now, I’d blast Holly with it. And she would be momentarily suspended in a burst of glowing-red bad special effects before she collapsed like an empty puppet.
The hug is quick though. Noah pulls away from her and walks forward. He takes my Gorn arm and propels us through the crowd, greeting everyone and shaking hands like it’s some kind of reception line. “Kate, good to see you again. Mom. Nat. Thanks for coming. You must be Memom. Good. Good. Mr. Butterman, thanks for hosting. The lawn’s looking great, by the way.”
With that, he steers me through the patio door. Undeterred, Natalie follows us, clutching at Gorn’s rubbery folds, jabbering, “No way are you leaving me out, plus, Charity, I keep trying to tell you to check your phone and you really need to because—” Noah unceremoniously shuts the patio door, cutting off her voice but not her emphatic gesturing. She presses her phone against the glass. It’s playing a video of Holly and Noah standing pretty much exactly where they were standing ninety seconds ago. Holly’s lips are moving, but I can’t hear the sound.
The vertical blinds close with a clatter.
I drop the Gorn head on the floor, tear off the rubber hands, and fumble my phone out of the sleeve. I swipe it awake—162 notifications. I scroll through my feed. It’s video after video with the same hashtag: #whycharityandnoah.
I start with the Holly and Noah video that Nat was trying to show me:
Holly says, “Because I don’t need a boyfriend. I’m busy getting to know me.” She holds up a half-finished panel of comics with a wink and a smile.
Noah offers her his hand. “Just friends?”
Holly shakes his hand. “Friends.”
I scroll to the next one: #whycharityandnoah.
Scarlett says, “Because I already trademarked ‘Nority’ as their couple name.”
And the next:
Surya says, “Noah’s a cool dude.”
And the swim team goes, “Hoo-ah!”
And the next:
Carmen coos, “You can tell they’re in love.”
A new alert dings and a post from Natalie pops up:
“GROSS, you guys. Noah has death breath. Do NOT kiss him!”
I keep scrolling:
Trevon says, “A smart girl one time told me not to act like an assclown. She should probably take her own advice.”
“Yeah,” Vindhya says. “Because she deserves to be happy.”
RoboPuppy nods his Erector Set head up and down, and she pats him lovingly.
Carlos and the Mouth shout in unison, “ ’Cuz they go together like Classic Rock and a Record PLAYAAAA.” They double high-five.
Gwen waggles her head. “Because dorky is the new sexy, right?”
Kade shrugs with his signature cocky jock grin. “Noah’s a good guy.”
Behind him, the football team hoots and hollers and makes it rain ten-dollar bills.
Greg the Waiter pushes his paper hat back. “Man, it gives the rest of us hope!”
Sean declares, “Because no one else is good enough for my best friend.”
Noah looks through the screen at me with those wish-filled, every-color eyes. “Because fighting with her is warp-ten b
etter than getting along with everyone else.”
I look from video Noah to real Noah. “Wha—”
He gives me his adorkable smile. “You wore Gorn for me.”
I glance down at my hideousness and shrug my big, green, rubbery shoulders. “It’s my Grand Gesture.” Suddenly I’m indignant. “Hey! You totally sniped my Grand Gesture!”
His eyebrow quirks down. “Well—”
I lecture, “Didn’t I teach you anything? The party who screws up is the one to execute the Grand Gesture, in direct proportion to the magnitude of the offense. That’s obviously me.”
He folds his hands behind his back and paces like a lawyer in a movie. “Unless the party of the first part—that’s you—is so dang stubborn that the party of the second part—that’s me—figures he could die of old age before she’d admit she needed him.”
“That is exactly the kind of cynical—”
He puts two fingers on my lips to shush me, and the gentle pressure makes it utterly impossible to speak or move or look away from him. His voice gets less lawyery and more husky. “And if the party of the second part cannot imagine a life without you in it, then he, I, would do absolutely anything to be with you, including track down every single person in California and beg for their help.” He moves a little closer. “Look, you said there are no more reasons for us to be together, and I’ve already posted twenty-three. So, I guess the question is, how much more data do you need?”
Even though my eyes seem to be having some kind of onion reaction, I manage to quip, “Well, at least two more. I mean, twenty-three is such a random number.”
He holds up his phone. “Okay. Reason number twenty-four. Charity needs to let her inner Trekkie out.”
Click.
Too late, I realize what he’s doing. “Do not post”—the phone swishes. Dang it—“that. You suck.”
He slides his phone into his pocket and gives me a look filled with sweet wishes. That look I can never resist. So I offer, “I guess reason twenty-five could be, um, that I’m totally in love with you.”
With a relieved laugh, he closes the gap between us, picking me up in a tight hug, which feels kind of gelatinous in the Gorn costume. But still great. I kiss him, and it’s salty and shaky and wonderful.
The room wobbles, and I close my eyes against a wave of dizziness. It feels like a glimpse, but instead of a new scene replacing this one, the moment we’re in right now shimmers and shifts so I’m watching the two of us hugging and kissing and giggling and crying. This is it, I realize. Our destiny moment. Our very own Awkwardly Messily Happily Ever After.
Acknowledgments
It takes all kinds of magic to bring a book to life. From that first glimmer of an idea to finding it on a library shelf, there are glimpses and nudges all along the way. And I’ve had so many fairy godmothers in the process.
Kim Lionetti at BookEnds, thank you for snatching me out of the slush pile and nudging this story out into the world. Jessica Smith at Simon & Schuster, you were able to glimpse both the potential and the problems; this book needed your fairy dust. And to the design and marketing teams at Simon & Schuster: you’re magic.
To the Charglings—Mary, Laura, Keith, and Karen: none of this would have happened without your spot-on critique and insights. How did I get so lucky?! Mary, I always eventually take your advice, starting with that time you said, “Maybe you should write a novel.”
AZ YA Writers, thank you for embracing me and treating me like a legit author until I started to believe it myself. I want to be just like all of you when I grow up. To the godmothers of Sun vs. Snow—Amy Trueblood and Michelle Hauck, and my mentor Kelly DeVos: thank you for helping me polish those first pages and the dreaded query letter.
Kerry, you loved this book from the start, and you’ve always loved me more than I deserve. Christi, you are the beta reader of my dreams—every time you text me fiction commentary, my heart grows three sizes. Monica, thanks for being the keeper of the journal and for flying out to be with me all those times. You are all Amazons.
Sasha and Mama Leslie, you literally prayed this up. And you fed me, body and soul—with muffins and tea and laughter and tears. Anna Ho, thank you for reading and encouraging and being the best boss ever. You’re stuck with me.
Dad, you knew decades before I did that I was a writer. Thanks for keeping every newspaper clipping and silly story. Mom, thanks for the thousands of hours you read to me and let me read to you. (Remember the summer of Austen in the kitchen? It happened.) Gretchen, every sister I write, they’re all a little bit you. And thanks for all the vocab words.
Elsa, I wrote this story hoping you’d love it. I hope we can always be book crazy together. Annika, who gave this book its first fan art, thanks for agreeing to stay eight forever. I’m sorry about the kissing parts. Emory, thank you for all the surprise hugs. Don’t repeat the swears, okay?
Matt, I love our life. Because of you, I believe in happily ever after, Prince Charming, magic, and true love. You’re also the most wildly biased beta reader I can imagine. Thank you for thinking everything I write is better than it is.
Okay, now on to the next book… Everybody dust off your magic wands, and let’s go!
About the Author
Photo by Denson Creative
G. F. MILLER absolutely insists on a happy ending. Everything else is negotiable. Her wish is to go everywhere—and when a plane ticket isn’t available, books fill the gaps. She cries at all the wrong times. She makes faces at herself in the mirror. She believes in the Oxford comma. And she’s always here for a dance party.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/G-F-Miller
GFMiller.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text © 2021 by G. F. Miller
Jacket illustration © 2021 by Julia Yellow
Book design by Jess LaGreca © 2021 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Miller, G. F., 1977- author. | Title: Glimpsed / by G. F. Miller. | Description: First Simon & Schuster, BFYR hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster, BFYR, 2021. | Summary: As eighteen-year-old high school Fairy Godmother Charity faces an existential crisis and blackmail from Noah, on whom she has a crush, she learns a great deal about her magic and herself.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020016238 (print) | LCCN 2020016239 (ebook) | ISBN 9781534471351 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534471375 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Fairy godmothers—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Wishes—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M5682 Gli 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.M5682 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016238
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