Out loud? Words are the worst.
“Gramps was just asking us about college,” Mom says.
Gramps nods. “Still NYU?”
“Still NYU.”
It’s always been the plan, to follow in Grams’s footsteps.
NYU undergrad. Interning at the Big Five publishers. A publishing job offer after graduation.
“Competitive school these days,” Gramps says. “College applications are so different now.”
The corners of my mouth drop. “I know.”
I know getting into NYU isn’t easy. I think about it at least ten times a day. It’s why I’m here instead of following Mom and Dad on their next adventure—to focus on nailing AP classes, to continue growing my blog presence, to keep putting myself out there as a viable media opportunity for authors, to prove to the book world and NYU admissions that I’m meant to shout about books for a living and will thrive in publishing.
“Well I’m pretty sure since I’m destined to get drafted into the MLB, Halle can get into NYU.” Ollie says.
“I mean”—sneeze—“if it’s destined,” says Dad.
Gramps snorts. “MLB? Good luck, kid.”
Ollie isn’t bothered. He just shakes his head, smirking. “You haven’t seen me play, Gramps.”
Gramps turns his attention to Mom. “How’s preproduction going, Maddie?”
He’s the only one who can get away with calling Mad Levitt “Maddie.”
“Oh! Really good, actually. Our locations were approved—”
And just like that, before my very eyes, my parents are no longer my parents. They’re Madeline and Ari Levitt, Academy Award–nominated directors. Seriously, my parents are the Leonardo DiCaprio of the Best Documentary (Feature) category. Six nominations. Six and the Academy Award goes to [insert name that’s not my parents]. Zero Oscar dude statues.
Leo had to eat raw bison liver for his.
My parents will spend a year on a kibbutz for theirs.
“—we’ll start filming at Kinneret next week and work our way south through four different kibbutzim.”
“Wait—” Dad sneezes. “You’re saying everything is all set … before our arrival?”
“Doubtful,” Ollie and I interject.
“Allegedly,” Mom corrects herself.
Gramps looks perplexed. “Shouldn’t it be?”
Ollie pats Gramps on the shoulder. “Alas, the life of a director is unpredictable, Gramps. You’d hate it.”
Gramps nods. “I would.”
Mom shakes her head. “You’d think that, Ben. But it’s the best kind of unpredictable. It’s following—”
I take a few steps backward, toward the free plug above the countertop. Now that Mom is officially in follow the story wherever it leads you mode, I can charge my phone. Finally. I can’t make dead flowers bloom or make the kitchen look like my memories of it. But I did make small talk without bursting into tears. A small victory.
I plug my phone in and tap my fingers absentmindedly on the granite, waiting for it to come back to life. I count the seconds so they pass: 152, 153, 154 …
At last, with a series of vibrations and notifications, Kels—YA book blogger and founder of One True Pastry—is back on the grid.
It’s overwhelming, the amount I’ve missed. Forty-two new emails. Sixty-five Twitter notifications. Hundreds of DMs.
And zero messages from Ariel Goldberg’s publicist.
I exhale anxiety because I didn’t miss it.
I inhale anxiety because it hasn’t happened yet.
Grams introduced me to Ariel Goldberg, one of my favorite YA authors, when I was twelve. So it feels fitting that today is the day I find out if I’m chosen to host the cover reveal of her newest book, Read Between the Lies. Fitting, but also ten times more nerve-racking.
What if the rejection email is no email at all? What if I’m not even worth responding to? What if Ariel’s publicity team read my pitch and laughed ? Now that Ariel’s a best-selling author on her fourth book, now that her books have “critical and commercial success,” she doesn’t need my cupcakes. Hosting an Ariel Goldberg cover reveal is for sophisticated platforms now. Real magazines with subscribers. Literary reviewers. Adults.
I’m just a kid who bakes cupcakes that match book covers and has an opinion, like everyone else on the internet.
And 20K Twitter followers who care about those opinions, I remind myself.
With my elbows resting on the countertops, I work through the process of clearing my notifications. It’s calming. Halle’s reality is complete chaos; nothing feels familiar. But Kels’s world? Besides waiting for this email, it’s so wonderfully the same.
I created Kels when I was fourteen, and Kels created One True Pastry, a blog dedicated to the two greatest things on Earth—YA books and cupcakes. She’s pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Once all my notifications are cleared, I check in on the IRL conversation. Gramps is asking more questions about the documentary. Mom and Dad respond with enthusiasm, all we haven’t been to Israel since birthright and this is such a cinematic opportunity and the Academy will have to, and I am definitely okay to dip my toes into my DMs before going back.
I tap the first message I want to respond to.
WHAT.
10:39 AM
w h a t ?
10:40 AM
You’ve NEVER seen lord of the rings? like ever?
10:40 AM
I am speechless.
10:41 AM
Actually no I’m not. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?
10:41 AM
… Kels?
11:20 AM
I hope you know that while you dropped a bomb like this and disappeared, your lord of the rings initiation marathon is already in the works. 20 hours. Extended editions. You’re not ready.
12:34 PM
I smile. Nash picking a Lord of the Rings fight is easily the best conversation I’ve had all day. I’m so grateful for the dose of normal.
hey.
12:49 PM
sorry, phone died. (it’s true!)
12:50 PM
okay, so hear me out. the hobbit was assigned reading the summer before freshmen year and just? so many descriptions of rocks? idk. i DNF’d it.
12:52 PM
The response is immediate despite my long lapse. Like he’s waiting for me.
WOW
12:54 PM
First, you’re wrong. Second, you can’t let The Hobbit ruin the whole experience!
12:54 PM
but it’s PART of the experience.
12:55 PM
YES AND IT’S AMAZING TOO.
12:56 PM
12:56 PM
“Halle.”
Mom’s voice makes me jump, and my phone slips out of my hand, clattering on the granite.
“Sorry. I …” I look around. The kitchen has been vacated. We’re the only two people left. “Wait. Where is everyone?”
Sometimes, being in a Nash phone zone is so intense, everything around me ceases to exist.
“Scout needed to go out.” Worry lines wrinkle Mom’s forehead. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. I mean, I don’t think we were expecting Gramps to be so …”
I flinch. “It’s only been six months.” Mom’s trying to give us an easy out, but there is no way I’m leaving Gramps. More than ever he needs us not to bail. Mom is good at chasing down truths, but she’s not so good at witnessing the ones that find her instead.