Literally Read online

  “Oh, no, he didn’t.” Ava humors me. “He’s like your perfect, OCD Prince Charming. Sounds like he was made for you.”

  “And he smells so good,” I say. “And his car … It’s so clean.”

  “Stop, please, or I’ll have to fight you for him,” Ava says blandly, fanning herself with bored eyes.

  “Shut up,” I say, chuckling. “When he dropped me off it started pouring rain and, Ava …” I say, placing a hand on the shelf and turning toward her, to make sure she gets it: the importance of what I am about to say. “He came around to my side of the car to walk me to the door.”

  Ava starts walking back to the register. “When did it rain?” she wonders out loud.

  I pause. “It was really odd. The whole thing was odd, actually. Will just appears all perfect out of nowhere, dying to go out with me, especially after what Lucy said.”

  “Lucy who?” Ava asks, sitting on the counter, and when I explain about the author showing up in class, she looks at me as though I just ran over her cat. “Lucy Keating was at school today, and you did not tell me?”

  “I’m sorry!” I say. “She’s an old friend of Epstein’s apparently.” I shrug. “But honestly, you may wanna rethink your fandom. She completely freaked me out.”

  “What do you mean?” Ava asks.

  “I don’t even know how to say this out loud without sounding nuts… .” I start.

  “I already think you’re nuts,” Ava deadpans.

  “Fine.” I shake my head. “She claimed to be writing my life.”

  Ava makes a face. “What?”

  “Now you know how I felt!” I say, coming toward her and resting my hands on the counter next to her. “I don’t even know a better way to explain it. All I know is Maya asked her what project she is working on, and she talked about a protagonist with my life. Grows up in Venice, happy, parents selling her childhood home, separating, even a weird little dog.”

  “That could be a lot of people,” Ava says. “It doesn’t mean she’s writing about you.”

  “Except then I asked her about it, and she said she was,” I say, and Ava’s eyes go wide.

  “What do you mean she said she was? Like, she’s been stalking you?”

  “No, that would almost be better than what she said! She said I am a character in her book. She said we all are.” I make a “spooky” motion with my hands, as I walk back over to the bookshelves. This conversation is making me feel antsy.

  “Oh, okay, so she’s crazy,” Ava states, raising her hands in the air. “Great. Just my childhood idol, a lunatic—toss that in the trash. No big deal.”

  I scrub at a spot on the bookshelf with the sleeve of my T-shirt distractedly.

  “Wait, you don’t actually believe her, do you?” Ava laughs.

  I roll my eyes. “No,” I say. “It’s just been a weird day. I woke up, found out my parents were getting divorced, and then the most perfect boyfriend imaginable appeared out of thin air.”

  “I know it has.” Ava grabs her coat and bag, and the big set of keys to the shop. “But even if we were both totally crazy, and actually believed Lucy, you still couldn’t be a character in one of her books, because you aren’t in a love triangle.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Love triangles are a Lucy Keating staple! She’s never written a book without one,” Ava says authoritatively, holding the door to the shop open wide. “Now let’s go home before another perfect guy shows up and asks you to marry him this time.”

  6

  Nope

  WHEN AVA drops me off in front of my house that night, I hear the unmistakable sound of boys being stupid coming from the kitchen. I walk in to find Sam headbanging along with air guitar fingers as a pot of water boils over on the stove, and Elliot drumming on a few pots with wooden spoons. He stops when he sees me and slowly lays the spoons down, watching me, his expression unreadable.

  “Your water is boiling,” I say as I head to the fridge to grab a glass of water. Out of the corner of my eye I see Elliot reach over with one hand and turn down the burner. Then he speaks, but not to me.

  “Your sister accepted a ride from a stranger this afternoon,” he says to Sam, his eyes still on me.

  “Yeah?” Sam has stopped headbanging, and is opening a box of pasta to pour it in the pot. “Who?”

  “Yeah,” Elliot says, hoisting himself up on the counter behind him with one swift movement and continuing to drum on his thighs. “Who?”

  I take a cool sip of water from the glass. “Not that it’s either of your business, but his name is Will Hale, and he just moved here from Hawaii,” I say.

  “Hawaii?” Sam says as though he’s interested. But then he just says, “Sounds lame.” He and Elliot burst into laughter and high-five.

  “For your information,” I tell them, “he’s not lame at all. He’s great. And he surfs, too. Without getting sand all over his car.” The instant this last statement comes out of my mouth, I regret it. First of all, it’s a stupid statement, and second of all, I’m digging into Elliot harder than usual, but I’m sick of his crap. My cheeks burn as I take another sip of water. Elliot is stirring a pot of tomatoes, but I can see the slightest twist of a smile on his face as he studies the pan.

  “Okay,” Sam says in his way that means Who cares?, “maybe we can take him out some time, show him the way it works in Venice. I gotta wiz.” He walks down the hall, and I can’t place it, but I am suddenly feeling awkward in this kitchen with Elliot. Elliot, who saw me projectile vomit at Disneyland when we were ten. Elliot, who knew when I got my period for the first time. I study his back, his loosely muscled shoulders, the place where his T-shirt stops and the smooth skin of his neck begins.

  “Hey,” Elliot says then, turning around quickly, deliberately, and I feel caught, like I have to explain myself.

  “What?” I say defensively.

  In response, Elliot’s eyes widen. “What nothing,” he says. “I was just gonna mention, if you will calm down for three seconds, that Paper Girl is playing at The Wiltern tomorrow night. I’m not going—we have band practice—but I thought I’d let you know.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thank you for the enthusiastic invitation,” I say, “but I’m already going anyway.”

  Elliot blinks at me, and he turns back around to the stove. “Anytime,” he says.

  I take a few minutes to walk to the sink, place my glass in it, and head upstairs. I realize I’m waiting for him to ask who I’m going with, but he doesn’t, and for some reason this only infuriates me more.

  I’m sitting at my desk in Fiction class, considering the two major problems complicating my academic performance. Problems that, for once, I have no idea how to solve.

  The first is that, despite all attempts, I am still useless at creative writing, and I am about to turn in yet another assignment that I hate. Epstein asked us to take a group of objects in our house and use them to tell a story. We could pick anything. I chose the contents of the produce drawer in our refrigerator, which seemed unexpected. But as I stared at the single tomato, bag of kale, and six clementines set in front of me on the kitchen island, all I could come up with was a story about shopping for groceries, where absolutely nothing interesting happened.

  The second unfortunate issue is that directly to my right, gazing at me unapologetically out of the corner of his left eye, is Will. This doesn’t sound like a problem, true, but it is when class participation may be all one has to get a decent grade, and one can’t participate if one can’t pay attention, and one can’t pay attention with someone as cute as Will staring at them all the time.

  “You’re a published author, too, aren’t you, Miss Epstein?” Maya asks. “Can’t you tell us about your process?” I turn my attention back to the front of the class, where everyone is scrambling to ask more questions about what it’s like to write a book, having been so inspired by Lucy Keating’s talk yesterday.

  Epstein flushes, a hand coming up to her cheek.
She wears stacks of bracelets up each arm, and I’ve never seen her without them. They click and clack with her every movement.

  “I do write my own series, but they aren’t exactly appropriate for this age group.” She hesitates.

  “Why not?” someone asks, but I’m too busy catching Will’s eye again to focus on who.

  “I honestly shouldn’t say.” Epstein sighs. “I publish under a pseudonym. Let’s just leave it at that. But I suppose I can talk to you a bit about how I work, if you’d like that?”

  What Epstein doesn’t realize is we all already know. We’ve always known. The whole school does. She writes bodice-ripper romance novels under a fake name, but nobody has ever been able to figure out which one. A group of freshman boys devoted their entire spring semester to it last year. But to our great surprise, Epstein covers her tracks well.

  Will passes me a pen, which is confusing at first, since I didn’t ask for one, until I see a thin piece of paper rolled around it like a scroll. It reads:

  THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. IF YOU COULD REFRAIN FROM LOOKING SO GOOD IN ALL CLASSES SHARED WITH WILL HALE, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED. HE IS TRYING TO GRADUATE.—SIGNED, THE OFFICE OF THE WELL-BEING OF WILL HALE

  I set the note down, a tingling feeling bubbling up through my chest and spreading out through my shoulders and neck. It’s awesome and horrible at the same time.

  Without hesitating I turn the note over, and write a message back, sucking in my cheeks to keep from grinning.

  Annabelle Burns will attempt to comply with the advisement as long as Will Hale ceases to stare at her with his irresistible grin.

  Do you agree?

  —The Office of the Sanity of Annabelle Burns

  I wrap the note and, using all my willpower, hand it back to him without meeting his eyes.

  Less than a minute later the pen lands on my desk again, and when I open it, I have to fight my limbs from doing a happy dance. All it says is this:

  NOPE.

  “So, let’s see,” Epstein is saying. I have completely lost track of the conversation. We could suddenly be having this class at an aquarium, and I wouldn’t have noticed. “Once I stumble upon the right idea, I’ll write up a short pitch, work on some character development, and create an outline. I’ll work off that until I have a manuscript, and after a few revisions I’ll send it to my publisher.”

  “And then what happens?” Maya asks. She must really want to be a writer. It’s cool she’s taking it so seriously.

  Epstein thinks. “Well, I’ve got my Editor, with a capital E, who works with me on the big picture. She helps shape the book into what it will be. Then I’ve got a copy editor, who goes through when the book is finished to query anything that doesn’t make sense.”

  At this point, Margot Dunravey’s hand shoots up in the first row. As far as I’m concerned, Margot and Napoleon belong in the same circle of hell. Margot and I have a few things in common: We’re both driven, both straight-A students, both occasionally misunderstood. Here are a few things Napoleon and Margot have in common: They are both territorial, cutthroat, and have been known to growl when particularly frustrated.

  My least favorite thing about Margot is that she always asks questions that everyone already knows the answers to. She doesn’t even care what the answer is; she just wants the credit for asking. I ask a lot of questions, too, but at least mine are useful. Most of the time.

  “You mentioned a copy editor points out things that don’t make sense. What do you mean by that?”

  “That’s a good question Margot,” Epstein says, barely hiding her surprise. “The Editor mostly focuses on the bigger picture, and making the story the best it can be. The copy editor catches any last issues, spelling mistakes, if it was four P.M. in chapter twelve, and in chapter thirteen it’s suddenly nine A.M. two days earlier. My favorite example I always like to use is, my copy editor makes sure my characters don’t have blue eyes in one scene, and brown eyes in another.”

  Margot nods and scribbles violently in her notebook, and my own hand shoots up.

  “But why would they?” I ask in confusion.

  “Why would they what?” Epstein asks.

  “Why would they be blue in one chapter and brown in another?” I ask. “You’re the author; you’re writing it. Wouldn’t you just know?”

  Epstein lets out a tired breath. “Sometimes you forget. A book has a lot of words in it. You can get caught up in other things in the story, and it slips your mind. Don’t you ever forget anything, Annabelle?”

  “Not really,” I say honestly. The whole classroom around me laughs.

  “Well, lucky you.” Epstein smiles, and leans back on her desk with her arms crossed. “Sounds like you’ve got copy editor potential. If anyone needs their stories proofread, Annabelle’s your girl.”

  Just then another pen lands on my desk. When I unroll the paper this time, it says:

  PICK YOU UP AT EIGHT?

  I steal a glance at Will. He’s pretending to listen to Epstein, leaning forward over his desk with his head resting between two fingers as he looks at her, but the smile on his lips is definitely for me. The concert. Out of nowhere I feel nauseous, but in a weirdly enjoyable way.

  As class lets out, I hand the pen back to Will again. Written on the paper are two words:

  Can’t wait.

  7

  We Had a Slight Accident

  “HOW ARE you doing, kiddo?” my dad asks when he walks into the kitchen that night, pulling a wool sweater over his head. I’m scrambling to finish up a problem set before Will gets here. I had trouble figuring out what color to put the concert under in my calendar. Was it really “Friends/Fun”? In the end, I decided to create a new color. A deep mauvy red. I labeled it “Romance.” And then immediately wanted to hide from myself.

  I look up and notice that The Evil One has trailed my father into the kitchen and is staring at me disdainfully. With my eyes, I dare him to snarl or bark, but I know he won’t. Never in front of my dad. It’s how Napoleon maintains his innocence.

  Now I sigh and look my father in the eye. “I don’t know how I’m doing,” I answer honestly. I decided to shut that part of my brain off temporarily. If all else fails, that’s what I do with the unknown. Ignore it until I can do something about it.

  “Look, you,” Dad says, and rests a hand on my shoulder. Napoleon twitches, but doesn’t move. “You’re a planner. You like to know what’s coming. And I’m sorry we are putting you in a position where you don’t have that security. But you have to trust Mom and me to make the right decisions here, and you have to focus on you. Finishing out the school year. What you’re going to do this summer. Columbia. Let us handle the rest. Okay?”

  I nod. “Okay,” I agree.

  “We love you. You and your brother. No matter how much things change around here, that never will. I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “And neither is your mother.”

  This one I can’t respond to. If I do, I might start crying, and I don’t want to be blubbering when Will shows up. So I just nod.

  “You wanna come for a walk with me and Napoleon?” he asks.

  I snort. “No thanks.”

  “I thought not.” My dad sighs. He looks down at Napoleon, who looks back up at him, waiting. “Come on, General,” I hear him say as they walk off together toward the mudroom, Napoleon hustling happily at his side.

  A few minutes later there is a light knock at the kitchen door, and Will is there, grinning with his hands in his pockets. He has on a gray T-shirt and worn-in jeans, and his cheeks are kind of flushed. He radiates warmth. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.” I grin back. “You could’ve just texted from the car when you got here, you know.”

  Wills expression turns quizzical. “On a date? No way.”

  I grab my bag and pick up the jacket he lent me in the rain from a chair at the kitchen table. You are going on a date, I say to myself.

  “Here,” I tell him, holding out the jacket. “Didn’t wa
nt to forget to give this back to you.”

  Will looks at the jacket and makes a face, his shoulders shrugging. “Nah, you keep that,” he says. “I have an extra sweater for you in the car anyway.”

  It takes us thirty-five minutes to get to The Wiltern theater, and the scene outside is buzzing. It’s in an iconic building in central LA, with a giant, split-level foyer in the shape of a circle.

  “I like this place because it manages to fit a lot of people, but you almost never feel too far away from the stage,” I tell Will over my shoulder.

  “I can’t wait.” He smiles, and I feel his hand press gently against the small of my back as we make our way through the crowd. I shiver.

  We find a spot down front, wedged into the corner of the venue. Paper Girl have just come onstage and the crowd is cheering like mad. They burst right into their big single, “Tell Me You Love Me,” and people start to shimmy and move. The energy is electric. You can feel the love in this room.

  Concerts always make me feel awkward and out of place, at least at first. Where to put my hands, how much talking is acceptable. I wish someone would just tell me how to move. But I go anyway, because I love the music, and I want to champion the situation. I want to be able to do it right. There’s a girl in front of me, on the left, and she looks like she knows what she’s doing. I keep one eye trained on her and follow her movements. When I glance at Will, he is grinning, slowly nodding to the music. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, either, I realize, which sets me at ease.

  That’s when I see Elliot a little farther down front, hopping from foot to foot as he bobs his head and moves his shoulders. Dancing was made for someone like him, with energy coming out the tips of his fingers. I stop still, suddenly on edge. Didn’t he say he had band practice? Then he turns and looks directly at me. I watch his eyes find Will behind me, and he nods in greeting. We both wave back. Elliot hesitates, as though not sure if he should come over or not, but then he does.