Between all that and my homework, I barely had time to text Amelia those details I promised, so I’m doing it now. Amelia insists that the combination of Brian (1) helping me with my car, (2) saying I had pretty hair, and (3) inviting me to go for a drive with him means he likes me.
It’s so obvious. Do you like him back? she writes.
I know the answer is yes. Because he dropped everything to help me with my car. Because of the valentine. Because of the way he makes me laugh. Because of the way he makes me feel heard. Because my chest is pounding just thinking he might like me, too.
But I’m not sure I’m ready for anyone else to know.
I don’t know, I write back.
Let’s figure it out.
Fine. But not in class. Ms. Williams is getting mad. Coffee after school tomorrow?
Yes!!!
Then the bell rings and my classmates dart out of the classroom.
I wasn’t paying attention, so of course I missed the fact that everyone else had started packing up their bags. I’ve begun putting my notebook away when Ms. Williams heads toward me. My phone is in plain view on my desk, and I worry she’s going to scold me (or worse, be disappointed that I didn’t participate at all in class today), so I try to beat her to the punch by being super friendly.
“Hey, Ms. Williams!” I say.
“Hi, Charlie.” She stops just in front of my desk and puts her hands on her hips. “We didn’t hear much from you today. Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yes. Definitely.”
She smiles. “Good. So listen, I’ve got something I’d like to show you. Can you hang around for a second?” I look at the clock on my phone. If I stay, I’ll be late for my next class. As if reading my mind, she adds, “I’ll write you a pass.”
“Okay, sure,” I say.
“Great.” Ms. Williams starts walking toward her desk and I follow, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “So, I’ve been very impressed with your writing this semester.”
“Thank you, Ms. Williams.” My face flushes with pleasure. “That means a lot.”
She reaches across her desk to pick up a sheet of paper. “I’m glad to hear you say that because I wanted to share something with you.” She holds the printout toward me. “It’s a writing contest I recently heard about. It’s specifically for high school students, and they accept short stories. I think you should enter.”
This feels like a very high compliment. At the start of the semester, I Googled Ms. Williams and I found a book of poetry she’d written. It had even won an award. So I know she knows her stuff. I’m beyond flattered. A published author recognizing me as someone with potential? That’s huge!!!
“Wow! Thank you for thinking of me, Ms. Williams!” I look at the paper she’s holding, skimming the details but feeling so excited and overwhelmed I can hardly process. “Tell me more!”
“It’s a pretty open-ended contest, so really, this is about you and what you feel comfortable writing and submitting. There are no real genre rules, but there are a few guidelines for word count and things like that. I’ve really felt captivated by some of the snippets of fiction you’ve turned in. I love the pieces from the story about the group of young witches of color you’ve revisited all semester long.”
“That’s easily one of my favorites!” I say excitedly. “I think it could be a whole novel eventually!”
She nods. “I do, too. But there’s also something very raw and emotional about the familial relationships you’ve explored in other pieces—loss, dysfunctional relationships between mothers and daughters. That kind of stuff can really resonate with people and may be of particular interest to the judging panel. You even have a few essays from your free-writes that could work as a basis.”
I am truly moved that Ms. Williams has given this so much thought and that she’s been so receptive to the things I’ve poured my heart into. She hasn’t even seen my online writing, which is chock-full of other passages, scenes, and concepts. I feel like I’m bursting with ideas.
“I’m so excited that I wish I could skip the rest of my classes and focus only on this,” I say eagerly. “I mean, where do I even start? How do I narrow it all down?”
Ms. Williams chuckles. “Well, I can’t write you a note to make that happen, but I’m really pleased you’re excited, Charlie. I’d say take your journal home and flip through it and see what inspires you. I’ve marked a few of my personal favorites, but it’s really about what speaks to you. I’m happy to look anything over, too, before you submit.”
“When’s this all due?” I ask.
“Ah, great question.” She points to the bottom of the page. “Submissions are due in May, so we’ve got some time, but it’ll come up fast. Think about it, okay?”
I nod eagerly. “I’ll get started tonight. Are you sure you can’t excuse me for the rest of the day?”
Ms. Williams grins, shaking her head. “I’m sure.” She scribbles a quick note to excuse my tardiness to my next class and hands it to me. “Let me know how I can help, okay?”
“I will,” I say. “Thanks again!”
I spend the rest of my day at school brainstorming ideas. I even research the contest at lunch and read through the winners from the last couple of years. Their writing is good, but I know mine is, too. Or it can be. If I can figure out what to write about.
That night, I tear through my regular homework as fast as I can so that I can try to narrow down my focus for my submissions.
When I’m writing, there’s a whole-ass vibe I like to curate. I don’t necessarily think all writers need to have a special space or notebook or pen or whatever to succeed, but it doesn’t hurt. So I turn off the overhead lights in my room, leaving only the white twinkle lights on over my desk, and then I use a match on one of my favorite scented candles (it’s “old books” and I found it on Etsy!). I pull out my oversized notebook, the one where I’ve scribbled dozens and dozens of ideas and pieces of inspiration over the years, then my favorite set of pens, and place it all beside my fully charged and plugged-in laptop. Sometimes I write better on paper, sometimes by laptop; it just depends on how quickly my brain is whirling around.
Finally, I open up a new Google Doc, fully ready to start writing.
Only…nothing comes.
Because I can’t settle on an idea. Do I go with the witchy girl gang? Do I start something completely new? I have ideas for a story about two nineties girls who became friends on the old version of the internet, America Online, but it would take a lot of research on my end. I could go with a short piece about a society of people born knowing when they’ll die, so they celebrate death days rather than birthdays, an idea I’ve been toying with. But I haven’t worked out all the kinks in that one yet. Do I write something about my mom? Or maybe about my dad?
I sit and think and sit and think until I’m absolutely convinced that the blinking cursor in my Google Doc is mocking me. And then an idea hits me.
Ms. Williams said I need inspiration, so I decide I’ll start by reading a story that helps clear my brain. (Sometimes my best ideas come after I’ve done some reading.) I snap my laptop shut, dig under my bed to grab a tattered set of poorly stapled construction-paper pages, and settle with them in the cushioned seat of the bay window, which serves as my reading-slash-daydreaming-slash-brainstorming nook.
It’s been a while since I’ve sunk my teeth into “Charlie and the Rainbow Shoes,” but now seems like as good a time as any.
Chapter Twenty-Two
While I wait for Amelia to arrive at Jake’s, I keep trying to settle into I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Coffee shops are normally a great place for me to read. The clinking sound of cups; the ambient music; the grinding of coffee beans; the slurp of foam; the indistinct chatter—all that is weirdly soothing and I’m usually able to disappear right into my book.
But not this time. I’ve reread the same sentence at least ten times. My brain seems to be bouncing between the writing contest, my birthday, and Brian.
I’ve finally settled on an idea for the contest—okay, two. I’m going to start with the witches and see how it goes. My second option is based on a series of difficult-to-read but really important passages I wrote in Ms. Williams’s class about my relationship with Mom. In my heart, I know that’s probably the winner, but it’s much harder to tackle, so…the witches give me something to warm up with. And that’s good, too.
As for my birthday, I’m making slow progress. I sent out a series of group messages to let everyone know the details. The final guest list included my cousins, Amelia’s group of friends, Benjamin, and Brian (sorry to the random acquaintances who didn’t make the cut). My cousins are in, of course, and so far, thanks to Amelia’s enthusiastic response to the group message, it seems like most of the people from school are willing to come, too.
Thank God for Amelia sometimes.
I spot her walking into the coffee shop and wave her over. She comes to the table and tosses her bag onto the chair, looking a little frazzled. “So sorry I’m late.”
“No worries,” I say. “You okay?”
“Oh, yes. Just couldn’t find my phone.” She rolls her eyes. “Food?”
I nod and we walk up to the counter, leaving our bags at the table. We each place our orders and then return to our seats and settle in.
“So, I have a new Insta that I’m obsessed with,” I say.
“Are you stalling?” Amelia asks.
“Maybe—but you’ll really like it, too! It features Barbies dressed up and posed like they’re in iconic scenes from movies and TV shows. They just posted a whole triptych—”
“Ooh, look at you, using that art lingo,” Amelia interrupts. “Mr. Reed would be so proud.”
“Right? But seriously, it’s a triptych from Stranger Things.”
“What?! Okay, show me now.” She does dramatic gimme hands toward me as I dig out my phone and pull the post up. She takes it from me to get a better look and zooms in. “They even have miniature Eggos!”
“So fun, right?!”
Amelia nods in approval. “So fun.” Then she hands me back my phone. “Now, on to the good stuff.”
“The good stuff,” I repeat.
“Yeah—quit holding out on me, lady. Tell me about Brian.”
I use the straw to stir my drink, partly out of habit, partly to continue my efforts to stall. “What’s there to tell?” I’m trying to be nonchalant.
Amelia’s not having it. “Oh, come on! You’re hanging out a lot and he’s being really nice to you and he offered to help you with your car…”
“Because he’s nice, and he’s my friend,” I insist. “You were going to help me with my broken-down car, too. He just happened to be in close proximity.”
“Yeah, and he seems to be in close proximity more and more! Like making it a point to come over to our table and talk to you every art class. And spending time with you at work. And telling you you have beautiful hair and inviting you to do things!”
“You tell me I have beautiful hair and invite me to do things.”
She sighs dramatically. “Okay, yes, but it’s only because you do have beautiful hair and you’re my best friend. And when I do it, it’s just, like, a friend enthusiastically supporting a friend. When Brian does it, it’s because he likes you,” she presses. “You’re just being stubborn and won’t admit it.”
My stomach feels like it’s doing flips at the mere thought that Brian might like me and that someone other than me is noticing. “I’m not sure I see it.”
“Well, there’s something more important that I still need to know,” Amelia says. “Do you like him?”
I don’t look at her and instead take a long sip of my drink. Then I look up and, with a shrug, say, “Maybe.” It’s an obvious yes, so of course it elicits a squeal from her. “But that doesn’t mean we need to get all weird about it!”
“That’s exactly what it means!” Amelia crows.
“We can’t,” I say. “I really just want to be cool about it. We saw what happened with Cal.”
“But Brian isn’t Cal. Not even close.”
“I know, but it’s important to me to just…I don’t know. Enjoy being friends. I don’t want to ruin anything. At least for now.” I swallow. “I need to be sure. You understand, right?”
Amelia looks disappointed, but she nods. “Yes, I do. I’ll try not to push it. Are you at least going to take him up on fixing your car?”
“I think so,” I say. “I’ve already bought the part. So.” Amelia seems satisfied, and I use that as an opportunity to change the subject. “What about you? How’s Kira?”
Amelia lights up at the name, a smile spreading across her face. She’s moved on from denial that they’re a thing to admitting that they’re “talking.” Like, every night.
“Oh, you know. Same ol’, same ol’…,” she says, playing coy.
“Spill—now. It’s only fair!”
Amelia grins, and it’s a goofy grin, so I know what she’s about to share is going to be good. “Well, since you asked: Kira and I are together now.”
My turn to squeal. “Together-together?!”
“Together-together,” Amelia confirms, unable to wipe the huge smile off her face. It’s contagious and I feel myself grinning real big, too.
“Amelia! You were holding out on me! I’m so, so happy for you,” I say, stretching across the table and giving her a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”
“It just happened last night! I swear. I’d never hold out on you,” Amelia says. “She and I were volunteering at that animal shelter. You know the one downtown?”
“Oh, yeah. Wait, you volunteer there?” I ask.
“No, no. I mean, not normally. Kira does, though—on top of everything else she does. She’s amazing, Charlie. She took me to the shelter and we fed tiny puppies! It was incredible!”
“Do you have pictures?!” Then I add, “Not that that’s the point.”
“Of course I have photos,” she says, fishing through her bag, grabbing her phone, unlocking it, and tossing it my way. I quickly scan through the pictures, appropriately cooing with Amelia at all of the tiny pups.
I hand her phone back and sigh. “Puppies! And a girlfriend!”
“I know, I know!”
“So, how did you guys have The Talk? Was it before or after you fed the little babes?”
“After. We left the shelter and then just kind of walked around and we ended up in this little park. It was warmer than usual last night, so we sat on some swings and were just kind of talking.”
“And kissing?” I ask, rightfully earning an eye roll from Amelia. “Sorry, but in my head, you guys were totally also kissing. It’s the writer in me, okay?”
Amelia takes a sip from her drink. “Okay, well, the writer in you is correct. It was really sweet, actually, being under the stars, just her and me. There was just something—I don’t know—kind of magical. And I know it hasn’t been very long since Sid, but…this feels different somehow. I told Kira I wanted to take things super, super slowly, given everything, but then last night I just couldn’t help myself. I asked her to be my girlfriend.”
I clasp my hands together in delight and hold them to my heart. “Oh my gosh! I just love a good romance!”
Amelia smiles at that. “Yeah, well, you should know, right? Clearly that’s in your future with Brian!”
“Don’t,” I say, pointing a finger at her.
“Who, me?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. “But…things did take a turn after I got home.”
“How so?” I ask.
“I got home kind of late and my mom was waiting up! And she wanted to know what was what—who was I with and where was I, you know, typical mom stuff. So of course I spilled!”
I take a second to try to imagine spilling the details of anything in my life to my mom and come up short. But that’s what I love so much about Amelia and her mother. They actually share that kind of stuff.
“But then,” Amelia continues, “that g
ot her curious. Who is this girl? Now that it’s serious, can she and my dad meet her? So now, of course, my mom is insisting I bring Kira by for a formal dinner.” She twirls a strand of her curly hair around her finger. “Why can’t my parents be normal and checked out of my life?”
I can’t imagine either of Amelia’s parents being like that toward Amelia or her sister, Tess, who are their sun and moon.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad?” I suggest. “Your parents are pretty great. They know you’re pan, right?”
Amelia nods. “That’s the thing. They’re going to be so cool about this being the first girl I’ve invited over that they’re going to go overboard.” She groans. “They’re going to smother my first girlfriend ever!”
“Girlfriend!” I say, swooning. “I just love the sound of that.”
“Me too,” Amelia admits. “But can we focus here?”
“Right, right. Sorry. Okay, so, dinner. I think it’ll be fine. If you eat fast, maybe you can make it last all of thirty minutes.”
“I doubt it. You know how my parents are. They’re going to have a million questions, and they’ll want to sit in the living room after and hang out. And Tess is going to be a nightmare, probably, annoying the hell out of Kira, and Kira is going to decide I’m not worth the trouble.”
“She wouldn’t,” I say. “What if I join you? Would that help?”
Her face brightens at the suggestion, and that warms my heart. It’s good to feel needed. “Will you?”
“Of course I will! Whatever you want.”
Now she gets up from her side of the table to throw her arms around me. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say. “You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 15