You’re okay, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and then make my way down the stairs.
The first thing I notice is the books. It’s impossible not to. Every inch of wall space in the large room, floor to ceiling, is covered with full shelves. And more random stacks populate every corner, table surface, and even a few spots on the stairs. The beautiful sight of so many books makes my heart soar. I want to run around, stroking the spines and singing like Belle.
But the second thing I notice is the eyes—ten pairs of eyes, to be exact—staring at me. There are tables and chairs and even some beanbags around the room, but everyone is sitting in a circle in the middle. And they’re all silent, pursed lips and assessing eyes, as if I’ve interrupted some secret meeting.
“Art of the Novel?” I ask, my voice small.
“Yes, dear,” says the woman at the far end of the circle, who I know is Lorelei McKinney. “I’ll excuse the tardy today because I know you’re new to us, but don’t make it a habit.”
Ms. McKinney looks different from the pictures I pulled up when Googling her online. Her blond hair is darker, tinged with gray, and her acne scars are more apparent without Photoshop. I don’t know why I expected her to dress like a carnival fortune-teller or something—scarves and hippie-dippie skirts—but she’s just wearing faded jeans, a plain blue shirt, and Converse. Nothing about her says “Published author of a successful adult fantasy series, beloved by a small but dedicated fanbase.” But I guess there’s not much money in that market for people other than the Game of Thrones guy. Otherwise, why would she be here in a basement surrounded by teenagers? Regardless, though, I’m excited to learn from her, and my neck is burning red thinking that I’ve already given a bad impression.
“Mmm-hmm. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” There’s no room for me in the tight circle, so I sit in another chair off to the side, trying to keep my head down. But to my horror, she doesn’t continue. Instead she keeps looking at me.
“You’re Tessa, right? Please join the class.” She gestures to a couple of the students, and they move their chairs apart, making room for me.
I squeeze between one of the fedora guys I saw at lunch and a girl with the cover of Pride and Prejudice on her shirt, adjusting the scarf around my waist as I sit down. Ms. McKinney nods before finally continuing.
“As I said, for this upper division course, the structure of the class will be fairly loose. We might begin the period with brief lessons on topics of interest, maybe some questions if they come up, but you will have most of the time to yourselves to write. Because that is truly what will get your novels completed.”
I feel my shoulders relax a bit. That I can do.
“At the end of the day, we will come together and workshop the writing of one student. We will be going through your names alphabetically, so there’s no argument about who gets to share. And no one dominates the time by sharing every day.” She shoots a good-natured look at Fedora, and everyone in the room, except me, laughs knowingly.
What was that? Workshop?
“And, of course, you will also submit whatever you’re working on to me weekly, so I can offer you feedback. I promise that the rumors aren’t true. I’m not in the least bit mean.” She looks around the circle and smirks. “If your writing is good, that is.”
The rest of the class laughs again, but I can feel my heart beating fast again, my chest heavy. Stop it, anxiety, I want to say. Haven’t I already been through enough today?
But my mind starts to spiral, thinking about what she just said. Caroline was right. Of course she was. I am going to have to share my writing with everyone in this class. They’re going to be able to read it and tell me how much they hate it, in person, not hidden behind a computer screen, but right here to my face. And then I’m going to have to submit it to this published author, who will rip it apart with even more skill, who will realize what a fake I am, and that I write nothing more than silly kissing scenes and trope-y plots.
Somehow, in all of my fantasies about this school, I never once considered actually sharing my writing with other people. Not until Caroline broached the topic last night. I realize now, looking around at all these people who aren’t at all shocked, just how stupid that was.
How did I not see this coming?
Ms. McKinney is going on now about the winter gala and how someone will be chosen to read there or something, but I can’t focus on her words. My mind is a mess and her voice is both too quiet and too loud at the same time, like I’m listening from underwater.
The sound of the basement door opening and footsteps down the stairs pulls me out of it, and I look up to see an angel. I blink a few times, rub my eyes that were embarrassingly starting to water, but he’s still there.
Thomas. No, Nico. The gorgeous writer I spotted at lunch.
“Hello, Nico,” Ms. McKinney says. “I was just discussing how I will select the lucky reader for the gala. Join us.”
I should be mad that he didn’t get the stern tardy warning like me, but instead I’m impressed.
He drags a chair across the hardwood floor, and nods at Fedora, who quickly scoots to the side. And then, just like that, Nico is sitting next to me, so close that I can smell his intoxicating scent of boy soap and sweat and grass. He smiles at me, revealing shiny white teeth behind his full lips. He could model for Crest. He could model for anything.
“Hey,” he says, sticking out his chin in a way that’s effortlessly cool.
I let out a sound that’s a mix between a mumble and a squeak, but thankfully Ms. McKinney starts talking, hopefully masking my mortification.
There’s some more information about the gala, then something about format and maybe grading? But the words continue to float past me until she claps her hands. “Okay, well, that’s enough of me jabbering. You can get started now, and we’ll skip the workshop today, give you a chance to find your inspiration. Feel free to go where you’re comfortable.”
Nico and I both stand up at the same time, but I scurry over to a beanbag in the corner, avoiding eye contact. I pull my laptop out of my bag and open up the Colette story. Here. This is something I can do now. Caroline will be asking for it tonight, and now that Tallulah and Thomas have finally kissed, I can let that story rest for a bit. But I can’t stop my thoughts from creeping back to what Ms. McKinney said about sharing our work. I could never read a page of this book, or my Tallulah one, to this class. And definitely not to Nico. The class would roll their eyes. They would laugh at me. Nico would never see me as a true artist, like he surely is.
Taking a deep breath, though, I try to push the worries away. Because that’s not happening now. I can figure it out when it comes time.
Last place I left off, after the mix-up with one guy outside her window and another one in her room, Colette was meeting Jasper at the park in their neighborhood. It was late, a cold November night, and they were huddled together at the top of the slide, Jasper’s thick peacoat keeping them both warm. This is an important moment. Jasper knows about Jack now, and he’s demanding that Colette finally choose. I thought up about half of the dialogue in the shower this morning.
But with my hands ready on the keys, two hours to write in front of me . . . nothing.
No words come.