One Tuesday evening, Dad is working late and Mom has to drive to Huntington Beach to run some errand, so I’m on Miles duty. The home phone is unplugged, and we’re watching old Dream Zone interviews on my laptop (at least I can find some use for it).
“Do you think a place can bring on something terrible?” I ask Miles, interrupting Thad’s monologue about his favorite foods. Miles scoots back to lean against the wall. “Or does it reveal flaws that have always been there, and it’s just, like, sparking the inevitable? Like, maybe this was always going to happen and I really should be thanking this place instead of resenting it for showing me so clearly that I should just get out now.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, his voice steady, and that makes me spring up.
“You do?” I don’t even know what I mean.
“Yeah, that’s how I felt the first week at Bixby High when I went to the vending machine and they had Sierra Mist instead of Sprite.”
I laugh. And then he laughs because he made me laugh. I pull him into a hug, and his short hair scratches my chin. “Glad you can relate, bud.”
Then his whole body goes still, which it never is, and when I look down at his face, he’s looking at me with bright, clear eyes.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“How are you so sure? Let me tell you, it’s not looking promising.”
“Because you have to. You’ve got this.” He wriggles out of my hug and shrugs, like it’s just as simple as that.
And I want it to be. I have to figure it out because I can’t disappoint my parents. Because I don’t want to leave this school that feels like the right place for me (you know, outside of the whole being-an-artistic-fraud thing). And I can’t let down Caroline by not sharing new chapters with her. It’s our thing, and the long distance is already pushing us apart.
Writing is what I do, and who even am I anymore if I don’t write?
Chapter Eleven
It only takes me a few more days to realize that I actually don’t got this. Like, at all.
I need help. I need Caroline.
Telling Caroline should have been the obvious next step when all of this started a few weeks ago. Except every conversation we’ve had starts with a new story about Brandon and his friends. About new inside jokes and hanging out after school at diners and meeting up at the mall. About his hand that accidentally brushes hers in AP Lit and a full analysis of what that means.
I really am happy for her, but it’s hard not to feel left out of her new life. Talking through my chapters was always our common ground, and now I don’t even have that to offer anymore. I’ve found myself avoiding her calls. And I hate that. She’s my best friend, and if anyone would be supportive—it’s her.
So, on Thursday night when my phone rings, another Art of the Novel class looming before me tomorrow, I decide that it’s finally time.
“Are you okay?” she yells as soon as I pick up. “You left me on read all day! And I left you a voicemail last night. You know I never leave voicemails.”
“Yeah . . . I’ve just been busy, uh, writing.” The lie just slips out, without me even trying.
“Oh, thank god! Not going to lie, you had me worried there. I thought maybe you died or something. Like, maybe nerd boy across the street kidnapped you and chopped you up into pieces and put you in a cake or something.”
I laugh. “Naturally . . . so, um, any new updates with Brandon? What comes after the traditional inconclusive brushing of the hands?”
“Oh, shut up! You’re one to talk, with the turtle pace of Tallulah and Thomas. You, more than anyone, know that the thrilling, ambiguous early days of a courtship is the shit.”
“Courtship, huh?” I ask with a smile.
“It’s moving in that direction, yeah,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “And for the record, what comes next is him asking me to study with him alone after school, which he definitely. Did. Today!”
She lets out a little squeal of excitement, and I squeal right along with her.
“But anyway, you’ve been writing! That’s good! But why haven’t you sent me anything?” she continues. “It’s been for-ev-er!”
My stomach feels sick with the anxiety, but this isn’t going to go away. And if I don’t say something now, I’ll just lose my nerve.
“I can’t write anymore.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself or tell another lie.
“What?” she yelps. I can picture her in my mind, sitting up suddenly on her bed. “Like, today? Girl, that’s probably for the best. It’s okay to take a break! Though I wish you would share what you’ve been working on with me. . . .”
“No, like, I’m not writing at all.” The words hurt coming out. I’d give anything to go back to talking about Brandon now, but I have to keep going. “Not since the first day of school.”
“Wait, huh? But you said—”
“I was lying. I . . . I’m—I’m so sorry, Caroline. I shouldn’t have waited this long to tell you.” I take a deep breath, willing myself to go on. “I kept thinking I would get past this block, and then it wouldn’t matter.” I can feel tears pooling at the sides of my eyes, and I blink them away. “But I can’t write anything, Caroline. I sit at my computer and just . . . stare at it.”
Saying it out loud makes it feel real, permanent. And the admission of it all is overwhelming. It sits on my chest like a heavy weight while I wait for Caroline’s response.
“Oh, wow . . . but are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” I don’t mean to yell that, but all the anxiety and fear (and maybe a little bit of annoyance too) mix together and pop off like a chemical reaction. I take a deep breath and try again, calmer. “This isn’t something I would just not be sure about. It’s serious to me.”
“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “It’s . . . I’m surprised. You’ve always been able to write. It’s . . . you.”
Her words hit me like an arrow to a target—because they echo the fear that’s been whispering in my brain for the past few weeks:
Writing is you.
And if you don’t have writing, then who are you?
How do you fit into your new school, your family . . . this friendship?
The tears I was holding back flow freely now.
“Writing is my whole identity, you know? It’s the one thing I have. The one thing I’m good at it. Like, that makes me special?” Once I start, the words rush out, escaping in between choked sobs. “And writing is the only reason I’m at that school. And I just love the place so much. I feel like I belong and I don’t stand out because of how I look, because no one even cares about how I look, how I look is nothing compared to the people who wear, like, tails and Slytherin robes, or whatever. But I don’t really belong, right? I’m not a writer, not now—maybe I never was? Maybe I never was! And I can’t fully relax there because I’m constantly terrified that people are going to figure out that letting me in was a mistake. That I’m an imposter! I mean, I feel like Harry in Deathly Hallows. I know we’re trying to lay off the Harry Potter talk—but when his wand breaks when they’re leaving Godric’s Hollow? And he feels, like, empty and scared because he’s supposed to freaking defeat the Dark Lord! Except he has no wand! And, like, I’m supposed to be this great writer, writing a novel is like my Voldemort and . . . I don’t even know where I’m going with this—god, I’m just as bad as the people who wear robes to school . . . BUT AT LEAST THEY CAN WRITE!”