Literally Read online

  At this, the whole class falls silent. “Annabelle?” Ms. Epstein asks, more as an accusation than a question. “Why would Lucy joke about her work?”

  “S-sorry,” I stutter. “It’s just that … she’s describing my life.”

  In response to this statement, Lucy watches me coolly, her head slightly tilted to one side. It makes me uncomfortable. But Ms. Epstein lets out a giggle, placing a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “That’s why she’s such a genius! Everyone feels that in some way, she is ‘writing their life’!”

  Maya’s hand shoots up again, and Lucy breaks her stare to give her a casual nod. “And what about the romance?” Maya asks. “Will there be some juicy love story?”

  Lucy grins. “What do you think?”

  Maya smiles broadly just as someone else appears in the doorway.

  This time it’s the silhouette of a teenage boy I’ve never seen before. And the sharp decline in the chatter of my classmates lets me know that I am not the only one who finds him noteworthy. There is something about his face. The way he stands, chin up, shoulders back. Big blue, almond-shaped eyes that smile even though his mouth doesn’t. I can’t explain it, but it’s like he is a star in a movie and we are all just extras.

  “Right on time,” Lucy says, which strikes me as a little odd, because he isn’t on time at all. Then she says more loudly, “Welcome!”

  The boy gives a small wave, a slight jerk upward of a hand, and purses his lips. “Hey,” he says. “Hi.” The second hi is louder, like he’s getting his bearings despite being completely on the spot. Then he clears his throat before saying, “I’m Will.”

  Will. I turn the name over in my brain. Classic. Solid. Cute. Intended to govern a country.

  “Oh, right,” Epstein chimes in, gently smacking her forehead with her left hand and shuffling through some papers on top of her desk. “Will Hale. I’ve got you right here.” She pulls out a sheet of paper and gives it a once-over. “A transfer halfway through senior year is pretty uncommon.”

  Will nods. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and I’m surprised by his manners. “Not my decision, of course, but I’m trying to make the best of it.”

  Epstein smiles, obviously charmed. “Well, go ahead and have a seat.” She motions as she fans herself lightly with her papers. “It looks like there’s a spot by Annabelle.”

  No there isn’t, I’m about to say. Izzy Ross is sitting next to me. At least she was. But when I look now Izzy isn’t there; she’s in the far corner, sneaking looks at her phone beneath her desk.

  I am so busy looking at Izzy that I don’t realize Will has already made his way over. I’m just glancing up when my pen goes flying off my desk, even though my hands were in my lap. What is going on?

  Will dutifully crouches down to pick up the pen and hand it back to me, but when his eyes meet mine, they get even wider than they already were.

  “Hi” is all he says, blinking a few times, eyes rimmed by thick lashes.

  “Hey,” I say back, taking the pen. When he doesn’t move from the floor, I whisper, “What?”

  Will looks a moment longer, and then he shakes his head and clears his throat. “Nothing,” he says.

  “Then why are you on the floor?” I whisper back. Because why is he?

  “Right,” Will answers, and attempts to unobtrusively take a seat. Which is nearly impossible to do when you are not only the new kid, but hands down the cutest guy to ever walk the halls of Cedar Spring.

  Lucy Keating is just throwing her tote bag into the backseat of a vintage Volkswagen Beetle when I catch her outside.

  “Nice car,” I say as I approach.

  “Thanks,” she says, not the least bit surprised to see me, as though she didn’t just plot out my life story for my high school creative writing class.

  I pause before I speak again, fully understanding how strange I am about to sound. But I have no choice. This is too weird. “I don’t know how or why you are doing it, but I’d really appreciate if you’d stop writing about my life,” I say, and swallow.

  Lucy lets out small laugh and turns toward me, one hand on the car window and one on her hip. I expect her to tell me I am insane. But she doesn’t. “Annabelle,” she says, “I’m not writing about you. I am writing you.”

  I blink a few times. “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “You are in my book,” Lucy says, as though she’s explaining that today is Tuesday. “You’re a character. In fact, so is everyone.” The hand holding her car keys makes a sweeping motion over the façade of my school.

  I stop and look around the parking lot, wishing someone else was here to witness this. I know authors have a reputation for being crazy—too much time spent isolated with only themselves to talk to—but this is a little much.

  “Very funny. That could not make less sense,” I tell her.

  “The funny thing is, it actually does make sense when you think about it,” Lucy says. “Some of my characters demand to be heard. Others just sit in a drawer, waiting for the right time.” At the look on my face, she tilts her head. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I don’t believe you!” I burst out. “What do you expect me to say? Oh cool, what happens next?”

  “That’s okay.” Lucy shrugs and turns to get in her car. “It doesn’t really matter either way.”

  I am about to argue back when a voice comes over the school loudspeaker. “Will Annabelle Burns please make her way to Dr. Piper’s office?” it says.

  I sigh. Piper. What could she possibly want?

  “Annabelle Burns to Dr. Piper’s office, please,” the voice says again.

  “Looks like everything is right on track.” Lucy winks as she shuts her door and rolls down the window. “Have fun.” Then she peels out of the parking lot, leaving me alone and very confused.

  4

  She Is Not Good with the Boy Stuff

  SOMEONE LIKE me shouldn’t be used to being summoned to the principal’s office at the last minute. Someone like me, with a solid 4.0, killer extracurriculars, and an immaculate disciplinary record, makes appointments and attends those appointments gladly, ready to be told how well they’re doing and what an excellent model they are for the rest of the student body. And if it isn’t too much trouble, would someone like me mind having my photograph taken for the alumni magazine?

  That’s not exactly the case for me and our head of school, Dr. Piper. It seems that my unwillingness to fudge the truth, as she would say, or look past certain complications and small snafus in the administration, puts a sour taste in Dr. Piper’s mouth. “The old editor of the paper,” she once patronized me, leaning down from her perch on her desk, her tight sheath dress straining against her large bosom, “knew exactly how to toe the fine line between the truth and … and—”

  “And lying?” I’d asked, and Piper exhaled loudly through her nose, her freshly done hair blowing away from her face in a single curtain of shiny locks.

  This is the reason I am so surprised when I walk through the door of her office to see a sickly sweet smile plastered across her cheeks, and not the usual scrutinizing stare.

  “Am I early?” I ask.

  Dr. Piper shoots a glance to the right of the room, and I scoot in a few more steps to find that we aren’t alone. Will, the new guy, is leaning on a bookshelf, clutching a bunch of textbooks to his chest.

  “Hi,” he says, and clears his throat again.

  “Hey,” I say before turning back to Dr. Piper in confusion. “Seriously, am I early?” I repeat.

  “You’re right on time,” Piper replies. Why does everyone keep saying that today? “I take it you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting our newest transfer.” She motions a red-taloned hand as though welcoming Will to the stage.

  “Sort of.” I shrug.

  Dr. Piper beams. “I was hoping you could do us a favor, AB,” she says. I hate it when she calls me that name, as if we’re close. “Our new friend Will needs someone to show him around. Sadie Kim was supposed to
do it, but she mysteriously came down with some kind of stomach bug only moments ago, and Will said yours was the only other name on campus he knew. I told him wasn’t that convenient, as you’re one of my favorite students.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her like, Is that so?

  Piper ignores the look. “So what do you say?”

  Will gives a wide smile, like Please?

  I really do not have time for this, I think. But all I end up saying is “Sure. I was just heading to lunch.” Then, not knowing what else to say, I exit the office. When Will doesn’t follow, I pause in the doorway.

  “Should I come?” Will asks, leaning forward curiously.

  “Obviously,” I reply. I’m not trying to be rude, but I have a ton of articles to assign for the student paper, and oh, yeah, a crazy lady just told me I’m a fictional character, ten minutes ago in the parking lot.

  Will’s grin grows even wider as he follows.

  “I really appreciate this.” Will walks quickly to keep up with my pace as we make our way through the halls. His steps are bouncy and confident. All around us other students turn to inspect him as he passes.

  “People think you’re interesting,” I tell him.

  “Wait till they find out the truth,” he says, and when I look at him, he gives me a goofy grin.

  “Are you always this happy?” I ask.

  “Are you always this direct?” he replies, and this time I smile back.

  “Always,” I say.

  “So what did you think of that class today?” he asks as we exit the administrative building and head across campus. “I thought that author seemed pretty cool.”

  I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Not a big fan of the written word?” he asks.

  “I love writing,” I tell him, shifting my bag to the side as someone jogs between us on the path. “I’m the editor in chief of our school paper.”

  “Whoa, that’s cool.” Will shifts his backpack around and places his phone in the pocket. “How’d you get into that?”

  “Diane Sawyer,” I answer simply.

  Will frowns. “The newscaster? My grandmother loves her. Aren’t you a little young to be a fan of Diane?” He smiles at his own rhyme.

  “So?” I ask.

  “No, I’m just saying …” Will’s smile disappears, his eyes going a little wider. “Okay, sorry. Explain to me your love for Diane Sawyer.”

  “You really want to know?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

  “No, I’d rather walk in silence and not learn anything about the one other student I’ve met today.” Will tilts his head and gives me a look.

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Okay,” I say. “There’s not that much to tell.” We walk into the student center, the double doors of the dining hall swinging back and forth ahead. “Basically, we watched her interview with Malala Yousafzai in school one day, and while Malala’s bravery nearly made my heart stop beating, Diane’s ability to bring her story to life made it race. Since then, I’ve watched every interview I can get my hands on. Hillary Clinton, Caitlin Jenner, even a special on Jackie O. The way she’s able to see patterns, to distill the essence of someone’s story down to a meaningful message, to ask just the right questions, takes my breath away.” We’ve stopped outside the double doors. “Also, nobody has ever looked fiercer in a crisp white button-down.”

  Will doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me. Then he nods.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” Will shakes his head. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

  I don’t know what he means, but I don’t really have the time to find out. “You ready for your high school dining hall experience?” I ask instead.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Will replies.

  My friends are The Loud Table in the dining hall. It’s where Elliot and Sam got the idea for Look at Me, Look at Me as a band name. That and our society’s ever-growing obsession with how we portray ourselves. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat … and whatever comes next.

  “Those girls will do anything for attention,” Elliot always complains.

  “They’re my friends,” I always say back, usually accompanied by a shove.

  “Well, they’re annoying,” he teases then, stepping closer. I always walk away in a huff, leaving him chuckling to himself.

  Okay, so I do know what he means. My friends tend to take on this weird persona when they know people are looking. Their voices get higher, louder, and they always seem to be standing up at the table instead of sitting at it. They do a lot of gesticulating.

  Actually, I want to tell them, we can get just as much of a sense of the cute waiter at Escuela Taqueria who hit on you yesterday without you standing up and shouting it.

  But they would just laugh. “Oh, are we embarrassing you, AB?” Their voices becoming louder, turning into a waterfall of teen shrieks. “ARE WE EMBARASSING YOU, ANNABELLE BURNS?” And I’d cover my ears with my hands and lean over the table, but I’d still be laughing. Sometimes, when you prefer to play things a little under the radar, you recognize the significance of keeping people around who do not.

  And yet now, as we approach the table, there is no gesticulating. No raised voices or fits of giggles. They stare at me and Will like a set of bored chickens waiting for their eggs to hatch. Faces expressionless, eyes large, all in a little row.

  “Hi, everyone,” I say loudly, trying to draw attention to how weird they are being without actually having to say so, and snap them out of whatever they think they are doing.

  “Hey, Annabelle …” Ava says as we take a seat. Both the slowness of her speech and use of my full name a way of her saying right back We’ll stop being weird when you tell us who the babe is. Ava and I have been able to communicate borderline telepathically since the third grade.

  “Everyone,” I say, “this is Will Hale. He just moved here.”

  “Halfway through senior year?” Nisha says. “That sucks.”

  I shoot her a look that says, Cut it out. Nisha has an attitude problem. But Will just smiles knowingly.

  “You’d think, right?” he says with a shrug, grabbing a grape and tossing it in his mouth.

  “So, Will Hale, who were you at your old school?” Ava asks, as though this is a job interview.

  “Myself?” Will says through grape chews, looking confused.

  “No, like, what was your thing? Jock? Band geek? Judging from the clothes I think we can rule out skater punk.” Nisha snorts.

  Will holds his arms out wide and lets his eyes run over his outfit. He’s got on a perfectly worn in chambray shirt, and deep olive khakis. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” he asks good-naturedly.

  “Nothing,” the whole table replies enthusiastically, and I cringe.

  “Phew,” Will breathes, his eyes sparkling. “Wanna make a good impression.” He tilts his head toward me with a smirk, letting his hand rest on my knee just long enough for me to catch my breath. “How am I doing so far?”

  “Fine,” I squeak.

  “Cool,” Will says quietly, still gazing into my eyes. I swallow.

  “Hello?” Nisha throws a Goldfish across the table and it nails me on the nose. I shoot her a fiery stare, but if she notices, she ignores it. “Will didn’t answer our question.”

  “I was a little bit of everything.” Will shrugs.

  “A Little Bit of Everything is a title many strive for, but few actually accomplish,” Ava states. “Prove it.”

  Will sighs. “Well, I was cocaptain of the soccer team, president of the Debate Club …”

  “Duh and duh,” Ava says as she sips Diet Coke through a straw.

  “Hosted my own radio show, head of the Wilderness Outing Club—”

  “Impressive, but not entirely surprising,” Nisha says to Ava, as though they are two scientists observing an animal in the wild.

  “… and a four-year member of the Mathletes,” Will finishes.

  The table goes quiet. Now my friends are looking at Will like
he is a woolly mammoth someone just uncovered on the tundra.

  “Seriously?” Nisha says.

  “No instruments?” Ava finally asks.

  “Ah, you’ve found my weakness.” Will points a finger at her. “Terrible at all of them, and don’t think I didn’t try. I love music; I just can’t actively participate in it.”

  “That’s okay, neither can I,” I tell him, surprising myself when I let my own hand pat his knee. The look on Will’s face says he is thrilled.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced us,” Ava announces. “With those credentials, I am confident you’ll be able to survive this crazy institution after all.”

  “So far it doesn’t seem that bad,” Will says. I look at my friends and see they are looking at me, all googly-eyed, and then realize that Will has been smiling at me all along.

  “Oh,” I say, feeling myself blush.

  “She is not good with the boy stuff,” Nisha whispers to Ava, and Ava snorts her Diet Coke.

  Of course, like on so many occasions, I walk out of class at the end of the school day having no idea who is picking me up. They swap in and out a lot. Most of the time it’s Dad, but sometimes Mom, if she has a meeting over on this side of town, or maybe Sam or, on rare occasions, one of Mom’s interns. But this time Elliot is there, waiting.

  He’s leaning against the back of the BMW with a smug expression on his face, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed, too, each hand gripping an opposite bicep. I know that, though I can’t see them, his drumsticks are probably sticking out of his back pocket. He thinks he’s so cool. A real redheaded James Dean.

  “You look lost,” Elliot observes when I am just a few car lengths away, and I stop and make a face at him.

  “Since when do you care?” I ask. I want to hear him say it. Hear him ask, “Annabelle, do you need a ride?” Because it’s just so like him not to. To let other people do the heavy lifting in favor of an ever-present air of Who Gives a Crap?

  But Elliot doesn’t reply; he just keeps smiling, maybe a little wider this time, because the trouble is he wants me to ask him back. Because we are playing a game here. Because he knows I don’t have a choice. It’s this or I walk. And I am just about to do exactly that when Will’s perfect silhouette comes into view between us.