Literally Read online

  AB: Okay, fair point. But he was such a JERK about it.

  Ava: Well, of course he was. It’s Elliot. And I bet you were no peach either.

  While I ponder this, another text from her comes through.

  Ava: So, now what?

  I stare at her words. Now what? And as if on answer, I hear Elliot’s laughter erupting from my kitchen, and my heart beats twice as fast.

  I say good-bye to Ava and pull on some jeans and a cute sweatshirt, wash my face, apply a little bit of mascara, and try to flounce down the stairs as though I just woke up like this. My brother is facing me, stacking pancakes on three plates. That was sweet of him, I think.

  But then he says, “Oh, AB, you’re here. I figured you’d already left for the library like usual.” And now the third place confuses me.

  I know what I have to do next. I have to look Elliot in the eye. I know where he is, I can see his outline sitting on the countertop, his legs moving back and forth. Why is it so hard to face him?

  Sometimes the body reacts in ways we can’t help, I hear Ava say, and try to prove her wrong.

  I lift my head and glance to the right, just in time to see Elliot look away. He stares down at the floor, his brows knitted together.

  “Hey, Annabelle,” he says dryly. And my stomach flips.

  “Hello, Elliot,” I say back, my tone flat.

  My brother looks up from the pancakes, from me to Elliot. “That’s weird,” he says.

  “What?” Elliot and I both blurt out.

  “You never call her by her first name.” Sam shrugs.

  “So who is the third plate for? Who is stealing my pancakes?” I ask, still standing on the stairs.

  Elliot clears his throat. “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t always call her that.” Then finally he casts a look my way, and my rib cage feels like it’s trying to squeeze shut.

  “Who is the third plate for?” I ask again.

  Suddenly, I hear the door to the bathroom open and a familiar voice humming a tune, getting closer to the kitchen, and my limbs start to feel cold.

  “Ugh, I am obsessed with that song,” the voice says as it gets closer. “You know that one from that band we saw?” she says as she walks into the room, pulling her long, silky hair and throwing it over one shoulder.

  Elliot is silent, looking at the floor.

  “Come on, guys, you know it,” she says to Elliot and my brother. “It’s all hey, girl, something something, can’t forget about you.” Then she stops, and finally notices me.

  “Oh, hey, Annabelle,” Clara says.

  “Hi, Clara,” I say back. And I feel like I can’t breathe.

  One important detail I managed to leave out about Clara, because I don’t like to think about her for prolonged periods of time, is that she only speaks in nonspecifics. Like she is too carefree to be bothered. Like she can’t listen long enough to learn the name of a street or a band or you know … her own bandmate’s sister. It took her, I’m not kidding, about ten times of meeting me before she finally got it right, and only because Elliot got mad at her about it.

  With Clara, it’s always That Thing with the Stuff, That Place with the Food, You Know, You Know, You Know?

  Part II, article 16 of The Elements of Style reads:

  If those who have studied the art of writing are in accord on any one point, it is on this: the surest way to arouse and hold the reader’s attention is by being specific, definite, and concrete. The greatest writers—Homer, Dante, Shakespeare—are effective largely because they deal in particulars and report the details that matter.

  As I listen to Clara babble on, flipping my own stupid pancakes, I am seriously considering loaning her this book. Or, like, kidnapping her and taping her eyelids open in order to force her to read it. Although, I’m not sure how well she can read.

  “It reminds me of, you know, that time we saw that band, when we went to that place? By the beach?” She is sitting next to Elliot at the counter, nestled up against him, trying to run her fingers through his hair. He’s tense, I can tell, but what I really can’t tell is why. Is it her? Or is it because I am watching?

  “What are you talking about, Clare Bear?” my brother asks. He’s not annoyed, but he’s not overly friendly, either.

  “When I walked up to Elliot’s car today, he was playing this song over and over. And it just reminded me of the time we drove to that show.”

  “It was The Kinks, and it was at the Pier, last summer,” Elliot says definitively. “The song I was playing was ‘She’s the One’ by Paper Girl. What’s your point exactly?”

  I almost drop my spatula, realizing that’s the song from the concert, when I first felt energy between us, and he got hit with the drumstick. And he was playing it over and over again this morning? That means something, doesn’t it? I take a deep breath.

  “You’re mad.” Clara pouts at Elliot. “I know you’re mad at me, babe. But I already told you: I knew as soon as I left on the tour that it was all wrong. I had to come back to you guys. I had to come back and fix everything.” I turn from the stove in time to see her go for Elliot’s hair again, and this time he all but ducks.

  “Well, maybe we don’t need you anymore, Clara,” Elliot says.

  “Actually, we do kind of need her,” Sam says. “While you were off wherever you were last night that you won’t tell me about, Trey Olsen approached me at Carter’s party. He had someone drop out of opening for Jacuzzi Kill next week and he’s asked us to step in.”

  “Shut up,” Elliot says, and high-fives him.

  “This is incredible!” Clara squeals.

  “You are not a part of this,” Elliot says.

  “Who else is going to sing, dude?” Sam asks.

  Elliot sighs heavily.

  “I know you’re mad right now, babe,” Clara says again, and this time when she rests a hand on Elliot’s back, he lets it stay there. “But I’m here. And sooner or later you’re going to have to accept that.”

  At this point I can’t take it anymore. I walk out into the front yard, leaving my pancakes to burn, and bury my face in my hands, smoothing out my eyebrows to de-stress, a technique we learned in gym class. This is all wrong. This is not what was supposed to happen. Why is Lucy Keating doing this?

  “Isn’t this enough?” I say out loud. “You’ve got your drama and your intrigue! You even got your sexy midnight swim! Can’t you just say the story is over?”

  I hear the sound of a little biplane passing overhead, and drop my hands to look up. Written across the sky in big, loopy, letters is:

  Sorry!

  16

  Is It That Kind of Book?

  ANXIETY NEVER used to be something I was particularly familiar with. At least, not until this whole literary fiasco happened. When problems arise, I usually just handle them. I never understand when I see classmates in the library in tears because they have a paper due they aren’t even close to finishing. How did they get there? They knew when their deadline was. Why didn’t they just make the time?

  I have to admit, though, this whole thing with Lucy Keating has set me off my game, because you can’t be prepared for things you didn’t see coming. Epstein taught us all about act structure and character arcs, the highs and lows a protagonist must go through to reach the resolution to their conflict.

  “Not every novelist does this, but Lucy writes her books with distinct act breaks,” she told us in class the other day. “So did Shakespeare. At the end of Act One, the characters learn of their debacle—i.e., Romeo and Juliet learn their families are sworn enemies. The next low would be when they think they are going to have happily ever after, but something awful happens, like when Mercutio dies. At the end of the Act Two high, Romeo and Juliet have hatched a plan to run away together and we think it’s going to work. Hooray!” She pumped her fist into the air. “The third act low is the lowest low, the most dramatic—i.e., the death of the two characters. Does that make sense?”

  It did make sense, back in the classro
om. And it was also really interesting. Now, sitting in my bedroom at home, after the Clara run-in in my kitchen, it’s a huge pain in my butt. How am I expected to function when I don’t even know where I am in my story? The moment Elliot and I kissed, I actually thought, This could be my Happy Ending. But what if we aren’t even at the midpoint? How many highs and lows do I have to go? And am I supposed to give Will a shot, knowing full well someone is writing us to be together?

  And so, I know what I have to do. That is, in this case, I must do nothing. Literally. I’ve decided not to leave my room until I have this whole thing under control. After all, if I can’t leave my room, I can’t really do anything interesting. And who wants to read a book about someone who doesn’t do anything?

  “So you’ve got this totally under control?” Ava says on my front lawn when she stops by to pick up my phone. If I don’t have a phone, I can’t be texted. By Will or Elliot. And if I can’t be texted, I can’t flirt or fight or even chat. Eventually, she’ll have to give up on this story and we’ll see how things really are, right?

  “Totally under control,” I say with a confident nod.

  “And totally under control to you means hiding in your room until Monday?” Ava says.

  “Whatever gets the job done.” I shrug.

  Ava gives a small military send-off. “Godspeed,” she says, and hops on her bike to go meet Navid at the beach.

  Things aren’t going totally to plan, however. For one thing, it’s only been eight hours, and I’m losing my mind. I’ve finished all my homework for the following week, and reorganized my bedroom twice. Now I’m just curled up in my bed, watching my secret vice, the thing that always relaxes me when it’s too rainy to run, or I’m sick or injured: It’s a reality TV show where fifteen amateur baking contestants from the United Kingdom compete against one another at an old English estate for the title of master baker and a grand prize.

  Something about the diligence with which they measure out their dry ingredients, the smoothness of the pastry, and the jovial way they conduct themselves in such a competitive environment sets me at peace with the world.

  A few hours later, I have just finished my fourth episode in a row when there is a heavy knocking on my door.

  I shoot up out of bed like a character in a bad spy movie. “Who is it?” I call out.

  “Your brother,” Sam says. “Let me in.”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Are you alone?” I shoot back.

  “What? Of course I’m alone!” He sounds exasperated. “Who would I be with?”

  Elliot, I think, obviously. But I keep the thought to myself.

  “Okay, I have better things to do than stand outside your door all day, but Mom says if you don’t come down for dinner, the world will end,” Sam says.

  “Is it that kind of book?” I whisper. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Lucy is a romance writer. Beach cottages and European vacations, Manhattan love stories. But what if she is taking a departure into new territory beyond Happy Endings. What is next? Zombies?

  I throw the door open.

  Sam is just standing there watching me, a puzzled look on his face. “Sometimes I wonder if one of us was adopted,” he says. “And by one of us, I mean you. Come down to dinner. It’s fish tacos, your favorite. Dad made the guac, too.” He starts jogging down the stairs, and then stops.

  “Were you with Elliot last night?” he asks.

  I swallow. “How’d you hear about that?”

  “Someone saw you guys on your bikes.”

  I nod. “Yeah, we rode home together from a friend’s party,” I say, as though explaining the logistics will hide the more significant details. The fact that we then went to the beach, and oh, that we totally made out for hours, then got in a massive fight and now Clara is back.

  Sam’s jaw moves back and forth. “Not like Elliot to hit up a Cedar Spring party, especially not these days,” he observes, watching me carefully.

  “Yeah, I guess he felt like he should give it a shot or something, before we all graduate.” The words come out too quickly, and I immediately wish I could take them all back.

  “Be careful, AB,” Sam says. “You and Elliot are really … different. Just watch yourself.” Sometimes I think of my brother as just some kind of big bear who lives in my house, never puts the seat down, and chews his cereal too loudly. But the truth is, he sees me much more clearly than I realize.

  “Careful with what?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Sam says, and I am no longer playing dumb. I am dumb. “Neither of us wants to have this discussion, so let’s just keep it brief. Elliot is my best friend, but he’s terrible with girls. Just be careful.”

  “I wasn’t even—” I start to say, but Sam has already reached the bottom of the staircase.

  My shoulder slump, and with a sigh, I head back into my room. Sam only knows the half of it. What would he say if he really knew what was going on?

  I lie back down on my bed. If all this is really happening, what do I expect to happen next? For the baking show host to reach out of the screen and offer me some cake? This is not like me. I am above all things a rational human being. I shake myself, go to my mirror, and run a comb through my hair, then notice how flushed my cheeks are, and decide it’s finally time to open a window.

  No sooner than I do, however, the strangest thing happens. A paper airplane flies softly through the window and lands directly on my desk. I approach it delicately, as though it’s an explosive device or a potentially dangerous animal.

  But as soon as I unfold the airplane, my blood runs cold. Written in typewriter font on a piece of delicate white paper is the following line:

  Just then Will knocked on Annabelle’s door,

  bringing her exactly what she needed.

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I say. And a moment later, I hear it. A set of knuckles softly hitting my bedroom door. Tap tap tap.

  “Annabelle?” I hear Will say.

  I sigh, and consider pretending I’m not in here.

  “I know you’re in there,” Will says. “Your brother told me when he let me in.”

  I roll my eyes, then open the door. But there is no Will there. There is a Will hand, and it’s holding a giant waffle cone, one perfect scoop of Oreo ice cream nestled in the middle.

  Will steps into frame. “You’re alive!” He smiles.

  “I’m alive,” I say, trying to hide how tired I feel.

  “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he says, unfazed by my less than hospitable welcome.

  “I don’t have my phone,” I explain. A lot of good that did.

  Will gives me a look. He should hate me right now. I disappeared from his party with another guy, and I haven’t even bothered to explain. But instead he says, “Don’t be difficult, Annabelle. Let me feed you. You and I both know that ice cream makes it all better.”

  Reluctantly, I take the ice cream cone, and let Will into my room. By this point I’ve gotten used to seeing Elliot in here, sprawled out on the couch, his arms tucked behind his head. But Will looks out of place. He seems nervous about where to look or where to sit.

  “So this is the top-secret lair of Miss Annabelle Burns,” he says, placing his hands in his pockets and looking around.

  “This is where the magic happens,” I reply.

  “Nice bookshelf,” he observes, wandering over to it. “How’d you arrange it? Alphabetical?”

  “Right now it’s by genre,” I explain, feeling embarrassed.

  Will nods. “Mine is currently arranged by author’s first name.”

  This should impress me, should make me swoon, and a week ago it would have, like the car organizer did. But by now I know it’s all a farce. None of it means anything.

  If Will senses the tension, he chooses to push through it. “Then, of course, I have a whole section for my comic books,” he adds.

  “You read comic books?” I blur
t out in surprise.

  “Only my whole life. Why?” Will seems surprised right back.

  “You just don’t strike me as the type,” I say.

  “If that’s how you feel, then you haven’t read many comic books,” Will tells me. “They aren’t all superheroes and villains. Though … there is a lot of that. Maybe I can show them to you sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it.

  “So what happened to you last night?” Will switches topics, and it catches me off guard. He’s looking at me sincerely now. I consider telling him the truth, that Elliot and I kissed, but what’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to be with Elliot anyway. It’s not like anything’s really going to change as long as Lucy Keating is running the show.

  “I wasn’t feeling well, so Elliot took me home. Sorry we borrowed your bike. I can drop it off whenever you want.”

  “I don’t care about the bike, Annabelle. I care about you.” It’s romantic. Epically so, in fact. But does it really mean anything?

  I take a breath. “Will … why are you here?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You’re right; I didn’t tell you. I just left your party, without saying good-bye. It was rude. And yet, here you are with an ice cream cone.” I’m pushing him to think about it. To consider, for a moment, if this is even what he really wants.

  Will shrugs. “You haven’t eaten any of it, by the way.” He points to the cone in my hand.

  Slowly, and just for show, I scoop a big bite up with my tongue.

  Will watches me while I chew, and waits for me to swallow. “And?” he asks.

  I smile, and actually feel a laugh coming on.

  “I knew it,” he says.

  “You’re weird,” I say.

  “I know,” he says back, and surprises me again with what comes next. “So nothing is going on with you and Elliot? I’m asking for a friend.” He smiles, all charm, and it’s as if he’s some kind of CIA operative, and the ice cream cone is part of his interrogation tactic. But this time, I don’t have to lie. I think about Clara’s hand on Elliot’s shoulder at breakfast and take another big bite of my cone.