“You are the literal opposite of regular. You’re a glittery, flying unicorn and a gift to this world that I treasure more than anything. But, like . . . you know what I mean.”
“I do. South High is all shining-white football players and cheerleaders who look twenty-five and act like assholes, so it was easier to write it off when you weren’t Miss Popularity there. Because who wants to hang out with them anyway? But if you’re not accepted by these people, people you actually admire, then you’re really a loser.”
“Ha! Thanks!”
“What? I’m saying what you’re thinking.” I sigh. Because she is.
“But here’s where I’ll add,” she continues, “that you will fit in. You belong there just like they all do, because you were accepted just like they were. Because you can write stories that are charming and heart-wrenching and unlike anyone else’s. Don’t doubt that, Tess.”
“Thank you.” Her little pep talk builds me up, but I also get another pang in my chest realizing I’ll have to go through a first day of school without her. I remember the first day of fourth grade, when Caroline talked me down from a panic attack after I found out I would be in Mrs. Snyder’s (aka Screaming Snyder’s) class. And also, the first day of seventh grade, when Caroline didn’t do any of the English summer homework because Lola was in and out of the hospital with her heart problem, and I spent all of lunch helping her speed-write an analysis of The Outsiders. We’ve always been each other’s partners, a solid foundation that could weather anything.
“And maybe once you realize how great you are, you’ll let someone besides me read your stuff.”
“Yeah . . . sure.” Though we both know I don’t really mean it.
I did try posting a couple of my stories on WattPad once, at Caroline’s urging, but one got three nasty comments and the other one, even worse, got nothing at all. That little dip of my toe into the pond of vulnerability was enough to turn me off completely. I’m excited about all the time I’ll get to write at Chrysalis. I guess I can even sorta forgive my mom for sending my portfolio in because it got me there, and though I’ll never admit it to her, she’s right that I wouldn’t ever have taken the leap. But I’m definitely not planning on sharing my work with my classmates. Even the thought of it makes me shudder.
“I mean, you’ll have to show it to some people, won’t you?” Caroline pushes on. “Like, at least your teacher. And probably even the other people in your class. That might be helpful, actually . . . they’ll be able to help you a lot more than I can.”
That last part stings. “Do you think I need help with my writing?”
“No, no! Of course not, Tessa! You’re a brilliant, creative goddess, and your words are a gift to my life—”
“Be serious.”
“Well, first of all, I am,” she says, her voice full of patience. “And second of all . . . I just mean, you know, feedback is good for everyone. And sharing their work is what writers do, isn’t it? That’s the whole point of writing . . . right?”
“Right . . . ,” I say, while my mind rushes to catch up.
Is the whole point of writing having other people read what you write? I’ve never really thought about it like that before, because I mostly write for my own enjoyment, but it makes sense, I guess. Why else would we have books? If that wasn’t the point, writers would just keep their drafts saved on their computers, for their eyes only. And okay, I’ve thought about having a book with my name on it, but I realize, with a pang of embarrassment, that in my fantasies I jumped from sharing my stories with Caroline to being a celebrated, admired novelist totally detached from my readers, which . . . yeah, I guess is sort of stupid.
I don’t know. Does that mean I’m not a real writer? Maybe I’m just someone who writes silly things for fun. For the first time, I start to think about how my creative writing classes might actually work—because until now I’ve only considered, with excitement, the long, uninterrupted periods of time to write. Will we have to share our work with each other? Will my classmates be excited to do that? My stomach gets tight as the thoughts begin to spiral.
“Can we . . . can we go back to talking about my outfit?” That felt like too much to handle a moment ago, but it’s definitely better than this.
“Sure, okay.”
Caroline and I spend the next hour going over every possible outfit combo in my closet before finally settling on a suitable first-day outfit for me. My mind, thankfully, quiets down in the process. This is familiar. This is easy.
“Seriously, what would I do without you?”
“Wear jewel-toned sweater sets? Jeans with butterflies embroidered on the back pockets? Who knows?” She snorts. “I’m really doing a community service. Do you think I can put this on my college applications?”
“Yes, please do that. And hey, how are you feeling about your first day tomorrow?” I ask, and I feel a little embarrassed that I haven’t done so already, too caught up in my own monumental change and anxiety.
“I don’t know, fine?” she says. “It’s just another day at South High. I’ll be wearing some boring variation of the uniform and trying to keep my eyes open all day, as usual.”
“Yeah, but it’s our first first day without each other since, well . . . forever! Who are you going to sit with at lunch?” I know the question has been plaguing me. Just picturing lunchtime tomorrow makes the dull ache of missing Caroline flare up like a fresh cut.
She laughs. “I’m sure I’ll find someone.” And that makes me feel a little strange. First, because I wasn’t joking, and second, because I’m definitely not feeling so cavalier. But we’ve always handled things differently. Maybe Caroline doesn’t need me as much as I need her.
Eventually, after multiple promises to call Caroline as soon as I get home tomorrow (and also to send her the next chapter), I get off the phone, and then I pull my computer up on my lap, diving into Tallulah and Thomas’s world of desire and romance again. Colette will have to wait.
I try not to think about anyone else’s eyes on this story. These words are just for me.
Tallulah slipped into the coffee shop’s open mic at exactly seven fifteen, the time Thomas had said he would be going on, not a minute sooner. Ever since their almost kiss was interrupted by the apparently unabandoned cabin’s owner, Tallulah had been afraid to be alone with Thomas again. What if what had happened between them was all in her head? Tallulah didn’t want to give that perfect memory a chance to be tarnished. She wanted to hold on to the delicate what-if forever.
So she showed up right on time, avoiding any chance of Thomas introducing her to his fellow musicians as a “buddy” or, worse, ordering a mocha from the hot, blond, sophisticated barista who was probably, most likely, in love with him too.
Tallulah found a place in the back of the shop, just in case she had to rush out in embarrassment, and watched as Thomas took his place at the front of the room. The twinkle lights cast an ethereal glow over his tousled black hair. Tallulah watched as he tuned his guitar, his slim fingers working with intention, and she imagined what it would feel like to have those same fingers on the small of her back or stroking the side of her face. The thought made her cheeks flush and her heart beat faster. Thomas looked ready to begin, but then he stopped and searched around the room, eyes squinted. Tallulah wondered, with anxiety, who he could be looking for—the blond barista? But she didn’t have to wonder for long, because when his eyes fell on her, a wide smile spread across his face. “For you,” he mouthed.