Literally Read online

  “I love it,” I tell him, and I mean it.

  Will bites his bottom lip, and suddenly, I feel like we are the only two people in the room.

  “Also, hey”—he clears his throat and turns to my friends—“I’m throwing a big party at my parents’ place this weekend. I know it’s kinda weird since I’m so new, and I’m still getting to know everyone. But it’s their gift to me since they uprooted me from my old school with basically no notice.”

  “A party?” Nisha asks, her eyes are huge, and she looks like she might dance on top of the table, she’s so excited. Ava’s hands are clasped together like a Disney princess.

  “A big one,” Will says conspiratorially.

  A whoop erupts from their chairs, causing a shush from the librarian, but I continue to sit there, thumbing through the pages of the book. It’s filled with deliberate, beautiful language on what makes a good paragraph, and even a list of “words commonly misused.” I’m sure most of my friends would fall asleep reading this, but to me it’s perfect. And the fact that Will would know this bewilders me.

  “Annabelle, you’ll come, right?” I hear him ask imploringly.

  My head feels like it’s filled with fog. Should I go? This is insanity. He might not even be real. I might not even be real. But it’s just a party.

  I look up at my friends’ eager faces, at Will’s questioning eyes, and back down at the book in my hand. “I’ll think about it.”

  10

  Where Warmth Begins

  WHEN MY dad picks me up from school that afternoon, he says we have to stop by the vet to pick up Napoleon.

  “What did he do this time?” I ask.

  “I don’t like your tone,” my father says, just as we’re crossing Washington Boulevard. “But for your information, it seems his intention to eat all our socks and underwear has caused a bit of a blockage. He’s going to be okay, but they had to sedate him.”

  “They always have to sedate him,” I say. Napoleon has had three vets and six groomers since he’s been a member of our family. When you call to make an appointment, they just say, “Oh.” Maybe that’s one of the reasons he’s so mean. Everyone keeps breaking up with him.

  In the linoleum-floored waiting area, we sit in plastic-backed chairs, surrounded by unhappy felines and morose hounds. One chubby little terrier is pulled back into an exam room butt first, his front paws stretched out in front of him desperately, as though headed toward certain death. “It’s just a checkup, Harvey!” his human companion exclaims.

  My father reads a script on his iPad, and I open The Elements of Style, thinking about Will.

  Part II, Article 17: A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that he make every word tell.

  I sigh happily, but as the breath exits my body, a nervous feeling replaces it. The more I think about Will the swoonier I get, and the swoonier I get the more confused I become. I mean, could Will really be written for me? Am I really just a character Lucy Keating created? Is everyone? I glance over at my dad. And worse: Did Lucy Keating seriously construct my parents’ divorce just to add a plot layer to my story? An “inciting incident,” Epstein would call it. It frustrates me that in the back of my mind I can still hear Lucy’s voice, telling me this was all her plan. What did I do to deserve this?

  Feeling restless, I put down The Elements of Style and decide to Google Lucy Keating on my phone, where a new Interview Magazine article pops up. It’s a photo of the author on a sunny chaise at an old-Hollywood type haunt, and the title reads: “The Irony and the Ecstasy: Lucy Keating was known for her tragic endings. Could the collapse of her marriage have finally turned her into a romantic?”

  Q: You recently went through a fairly private divorce with a fairly high-profile man, Edwin Clarke, the youngest-ever CEO of Clarke Industries, which owns two of the biggest media agencies in the world.

  LK: [Smiling] Is there a question in there?

  Q: Forgive us. We’re prying.

  LK: Edwin and I met at Brown. We were English majors, aspiring writers. Everything was different then. I got an MFA; he got an MBA … let’s just say that sometimes people can change together, and sometimes they can’t.

  Q: Did the heartache over the breakup inform any of your work?

  LK: Not yet. But oddly enough, I had found kind of a cult following in the tragic. People read my books knowing they would go from up to down again, that in the end they were going to get a good cry out of it.

  Q: But not anymore?

  LK: I’ve done enough crying.

  Q: So where do you go from here?

  LK: Well, a lot has changed for me in the past year or so. Now I’m in sunny California. I just adopted another dog. He’s a pain in the butt, but I love him. I want to try and take myself a little less seriously. I want my characters to be happy.

  Q: And how’s that going?

  LK: I’m getting some pushback.

  Q: From your editors?

  LK: [Smiling again] From my characters.

  Well, this pisses me off. I mean, excuse me for having an opinion on my life being a total freaking construct. I realize how ridiculous I sound, and I want to scream, but then I glance up to notice the women next to me reading over my shoulder.

  “Sorry.” She gives a bashful shrug. “I just love her.”

  I attempt a smile.

  “You know they’re making Across the Sea into a movie?” the woman asks.

  “I didn’t,” I answer, and in my head I wonder, If my story became a movie, who would play me? Then I shake the image from my mind. This is all bananas.

  “Who are you waiting for?” I ask, nodding toward the exam rooms and trying to change the subject.

  “Tuna,” she answers.

  “A fish?” I ask, surprised. I didn’t realize people took their pet fish to the vet.

  “Tunafish is a hamster,” the woman clarifies then, and I can’t seem to find the right words to respond to this.

  The vet comes out through the swinging doors and walks over to her, holding a small shoe box. “He’s still a little groggy, but he did very well,” he says. Tunafish’s human companion thanks the vet profusely and my father gives me a look over the top of his iPad, then notices the book in my lap.

  “Where’d you get that?” my dad asks, pointing to The Elements of Style after Tuna and his caretaker have left.

  “A friend,” I say, feeling my cheeks get warmer.

  “A boy?” my dad asks, with raised brows.

  “Yeah, a boy,” I answer.

  “I remember that book from college. He must really like you,” he observes.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, my voice getting weird and high.

  “Because he must really be paying attention,” my dad replies, looking back at his iPad with a small smile.

  I’m in a weird mood when I open the door to my bedroom at home, which makes the sight of Elliot, lying on my couch and reading my creative-writing notebook, particularly infuriating.

  “These stories suck,” he tells me.

  “I know,” I say, snatching it out of his hand and walking over to my desk. “But thanks for your support. And also, get out of my room.”

  “I am being supportive, Bellybutton,” Elliot explains, sitting up. “You’re a quasi-genius. You win awards for your writing. And those stories look like they were written by, well … me.”

  “Can you leave?” I ask again.

  “Whoa,” Elliot says, holding his hands high in the air like he’s not responsible for whatever is happening on my face. “Annabelle. Relax. I’m kidding.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say, my voice starting to shake. “They suck, I know. I don’t even want to be taking this stupid class. I have to. Do you think I like being bad at school? Fai
ling doesn’t come so easily to all of us.” This last part was unnecessary, I know, but I need him out of here. His presence is a reminder of just how out of control my life is becoming.

  “Is there a shot you can take when your bitchiness becomes unchecked? Because if so I will gladly give it to you,” Elliot retorts.

  “Good one,” I say.

  “You asked for it,” he says back.

  “No, I didn’t, actually,” I say. “I didn’t ask for you to be in here. Why are you always in here?!”

  Elliot raises his hands silently again, his face still, and starts to walk toward the door.

  “I don’t even know how to explain it,” I hear myself say, rearranging the top of my desk over and over again to try to calm myself down, before laying my head in my hands. My eyes have become wet. “Do you ever just feel like your life is, like”—how can I even explain this to him—“written for you?”

  To my surprise, Elliot stops, and nods. “Sure,” he says.

  “Really?” I look up.

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “I give it the middle finger,” Elliot says seriously, and a small laugh escapes my lips.

  I think about how I tried to avoid Will all day, but he kept showing up, and then he gave me that freaking book, the sweetest thing imaginable. All I wanted was to get away from the person—the character—Lucy Keating had written for me, but then there he was, being so … great.

  “But what if you can’t? What if you try and it doesn’t work?”

  “Is this about your parents?” Elliot asks, sitting down on my bed. “Because I’ve been there.”

  “It’s not about them!” I cry, and I want to throw something. But maybe it is, in a way. Maybe it’s about the fact that a week ago my life was great. Maybe not perfect, but pretty close. I had it all under control. And now I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know what’s real.

  “Annabelle, if you don’t like the way your life is going … rewrite it,” Elliot says, having no idea how much sense he’s making. He’s leaning over and wresting his elbows on his thighs, the closest he’s been to me since the concert.

  “I’m trying,” I whimper.

  “So keep trying,” he says back. “You worry too much.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. He’s still so close, and just then I have an insane urge to stick my head in the crook of his neck, and keep it there. Will may smell like laundry, but Elliot smells like warmth. He smells like where warmth begins.

  “Annabelle?” Elliot asks.

  “Yeah?” I say, and look up at him.

  “You have mascara all over your face,” he says instead. And instead of sticking my head in the crook of his neck, I smack him in the shoulder.

  “Ow,” he says loudly, but then he grins. “I should get downstairs. We got band practice. Clara or no Clara.” He stands up and heads toward the door, and pauses, letting the top of his hand graze the top of the frame. “Hey, are you going to that guy Will’s party this weekend?”

  I snort. “I like how you say That Guy Will, like you didn’t just third-wheel it on our date the other night. You know, after I rescued you.”

  “Fine, Will’s party. Are you going or not?” Elliot asks.

  I straighten up a little bit, wiping at my eyes, wondering why he’s asking. “Um,” I start, “I think so.”

  Elliot crosses his arms over his chest for a second, thinking. I expect him to tell me he’s got a gig or a photography exhibit or a skateboarding show. Elliot’s scene is not high school. It’s never really been high school.

  “Me too,” he says instead. “I’ll see you there.”

  “You will?” I squeak.

  “If you’re going,” he says, heading out the door now. Not flirtatiously. Not like the time he mentioned the sand on my jeans. Like he’s stating a fact. Like he’s telling me how he takes his coffee.

  “Elliot!” Sam cries then, from outside the door. “Where are you, man? We gotta practice.”

  Elliot jerks to attention. “Gotta bounce,” he says. “See you.”

  And just like that he’s gone, out the door.

  “Why are you always in there?” I hear Sam’s muffled voice from the hallway as the sound of boy feet charging down the stairs dissipates.

  “Why am I always where?” is the last thing I hear Elliot say, and the sound of his voice makes me smile.

  11

  You’re a Killer Emotional Support Pony

  “I THINK I’m in love,” Ava says, her face upside down. She’s lying on the beach blanket with her head next to my legs. To celebrate how long it’s been staying light every day, we decided to pick up some poke from Papa’s Poke Shop after school and head down to the water. The sky is glowing pink, which is perfect for our conversation.

  “You’re always in love,” I reply, smiling as I manage to grab a chunk of deliciously seasoned tuna, a piece of avocado, and some brown rice all in the same bite. Ice cream and poke, I think. That’s all I need to survive.

  “This time I mean it,” Ava says.

  “You always mean it,” I say. “Who is it this time?”

  “Navid.” She sighs.

  “Good choice,” I say, pleasure in my voice. Ava’s past boyfriends include such stellar human beings as the angry, heavily tattooed singer of a local punk band, or an insecure member of the school’s improv troupe. But Navid is a straight-A student, president of the senior class, and genuinely nice to everyone. Not to mention his eyes may be the very definition of smoldering.

  “So what’s the game plan?” I ask.

  “He’s going to be at Will’s party,” Ava says. “They bonded in AP Bio.”

  “That makes sense,” I say. “They’re both creepily perfect.”

  “They’ll probably run for president someday on the same ticket,” Ava says, and we both crack up. “Hey!” she says. “We could have side-by-side offices at the White House!”

  I know Ava’s joking, but my face falls anyway, because something about that feels wrong. I’ve already told Ava all about what happened when I left the bookstore the other night, about all the TK signs, basically proving that we are in fact living through one crazy, confusing YA story, starring me. Written by some loony tunes author who is actually bizarrely in her own story. And of course Ava believes me, because she’s Ava. Because she’s the best.

  I can see Will in my head, picture exactly how right he is for me, but there’s still something missing.

  “What is it?” Ava asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s complicated.”

  Ava thinks for a second. “Maybe you don’t want to share the White House with me, because you don’t want to share the spotlight,” she says quietly, digging in some sand, and I almost drop my next bite of poke.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, placing my fork back in the bowl.

  “Come on, AB,” Ava says. “We all know what I am in this story. If you are the protagonist, and Will is your love interest, then what am I? I’m the best friend. And what do we know about the best friend?”

  “What do we know?” I repeat.

  “They’re one-dimensional!” Ava cries, sitting up. “They exist purely to get the main character to talk about their actions, to figure out their problems. They cause the breakthroughs, but they usually have nothing to call their own.” She starts to pack up her stuff in a huff.

  “Wait, you’re really upset about this?” I ask, and Ava just shrugs without looking at me. “Ava, I mean it, I don’t want the spotlight. You know me. I’m the one who gets embarrassed when you guys are loud at lunch. I don’t want any of this.” My voice cracks. I never even considered how Ava might feel about all this, and it kills me that, after everything she does for me, I could ever make her feel like I don’t appreciate how amazing she is. “Please, you’re my best friend. I love you. You can’t be mad at me.”

  Ava sighs, and drops her hands by her side. She sits back on her heels and gazes
at the ocean. “I just don’t want to be your emotional support pony,” she admits.

  I struggle to keep a straight face. “What is an emotional support pony, exactly?” I ask. In front of us, out on the water, a big sailboat passes directly into frame, its sail perfectly taut against the wind. I want to swim out to it and get as far away from here as possible.

  Ava snorts. “I saw this thing on the nature channel about a horse farm in Virginia. Sometimes the new horses get really worked up and anxious, so they have these small, fuzzy, emotional support ponies that hang out with them in their pens. Apparently, it’s soothing.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and then start cracking up at the same time. “Fine. I guess I’m being ridiculous. But this whole thing is weird,” Ava says.

  “So help me figure out what’s going on,” I say. “You may be the only one who can.”

  Ava nods, thinking, then scooches off her knees, settling back down on the blanket. “I know I’ve already told you this, but I’m not sure this is something that can be figured out so easily. Love, relationships, this is the one area where we are not in control. Do you like Will or not?”

  I pause. “I like Will a lot,” I say.

  “But you like Elliot, too?” she asks.

  “I didn’t say that,” I reply.

  “You didn’t have to,” she says. “I see him dropping you off almost every day. He’s usually late. You are never late. And you let yourself be late … for Elliot.”

  “That’s not about Elliot,” I protest. “That’s because stuff is weird with my parents. The more time I spend with them, the more I might have to talk about … you know.”

  “Well, maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk about You Know,” Ava says.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “No. And no to Elliot, too. I like Will,” I say. “I really do. Will is charming and fun to look at, and he makes me feel like a spotlight is shining on me whenever we’re together. Like I’m the most interesting person in the world, and so is he, but he finds me more interesting than him.”

  “That’s a little hard to follow, but I think I get it.” Ava nods.

  “I don’t have feelings for Elliot; we just know each other really well. He understands a part of me other people don’t. He knows how to call me out.”