“It doesn’t even seem real anymore.”
“It’s a disaster!” Nisha fell backward on Darcy’s bed, bouncing in her death throes and pulling the blankets askew. People were always saying how much older Nisha seemed than her fourteen years. If only they knew the truth.
“None of this seems real,” Darcy said softly, staring at the torn contract.
Nisha sat up. “You know why that is, Patel? Because you haven’t told them yet.”
“I will. After graduation next week.” Or maybe later, whenever Oberlin’s deferral deadline was.
“No, now. Right after you drop those contracts in the mail.”
“Today?” The thought of her parents’ reaction sent a cold trickle down Darcy’s spine.
“Yes. Telling them is what makes all of this real. Until then, you’re just some little kid daydreaming about being a famous writer.”
Darcy stared at her sister. “You remember I’m older than you, right?”
“So act like it.”
“But they might say no.”
“They can’t. You’re eighteen. That’s, like, an adult.”
A laugh erupted out of Darcy, and Nisha joined in. The idea of the elder Patels recognizing their children’s independence at eighteen—or any age—was hilarious.
“Don’t worry about them,” Nisha said once they’d recovered. “I have a plan.”
“Which is?”
“Secret.” A crafty smile settled onto Nisha’s face, which was about as reassuring as the shredded contract.
It wasn’t only her parents’ reaction that was making Darcy nervous. There was something terrifying about her plans, something absurd, as if she’d decided to become an astronaut or a rock star.
“Do you think I’m crazy, wanting to do this?”
Nisha shrugged. “If you want to be a writer, you should do it now. Like you keep saying, Afterworlds could tank and no one will ever publish you again.”
“I only said that once.” Darcy sighed. “But thanks for reminding me.”
“You’re welcome, Patel. But look—that’s a binding legal contract. Until your book officially bombs, you’re a real novelist! So would you rather blow all that money as a writer in New York City? Or as some freshman churning out essays about dead white guys?”
Darcy dropped her gaze to the torn contract. Maybe it had ripped because she wanted this too much. Maybe her hand would always slip at the last moment, tearing what she desired most. But somehow the contract was beautiful, even in its damaged state. Right there on the first page, it defined her, Darcy Patel, as “The Author.” You couldn’t get much realer than that.
“I’d rather be a writer than a freshman,” she said.
“Then you have to tell the elder Patels—after those are in the mailbox.”
Darcy looked at the return envelope and wondered if the Underbridge Literary Agency provided stamps for all its authors, or only the teenage ones. But at least it made sending off the contract as easy as walking to the corner, which took less effort than resisting Nisha. If her little sister had a plan, there would be no respite without compliance.
“Okay. At lunch.”
Darcy lifted her favorite pen, and signed her name four times.
* * *
“I’ve got something to tell you guys,” she said. “But don’t get upset.”
The expressions around the table—including Nisha’s—made Darcy wonder if she should have started differently. Her father had paused in midbite, and Annika Patel was staring wide-eyed.
Lunch was leftovers from takeout the night before—fried red peppers, chickpeas cooked with tamarind, all of it swimming in garam masala and served straight from the styrofoam containers. Not an auspicious setting for important announcements.
“The thing is, I want to defer college for a year.”
“What?” her mother asked. “Why on earth?”
“Because I have responsibilities.” This line had sounded better in her head. “I need to do the rewrites for Afterworlds, and write a sequel.”
“But . . .” Her mother paused, and the elder Patels shared a look.
“Working on books isn’t going to take all your time,” her father said. “You wrote your first one in a month, didn’t you? And that didn’t interfere with your studies.”
“It almost killed me!” Darcy said. She’d dreaded coming home some days last November, because she knew that two thousand words of novel awaited her, on top of homework, college application essays, and studying for the SATs. “Besides, I didn’t write a book in a month. I wrote a draft.”
Her parents just stared at her.
“There’s no good writing, only good rewriting,” she quoted, not quite certain who’d said it first. “Everyone says this is the hard part, turning my draft into a real novel. According to the contract, I have until September to turn in a final draft. That’s four whole months, so they must think revisions are pretty important.”
“I’m sure they are. But September is when college starts,” Annika Patel said, all smiles. “So there’s no conflict, is there?”
“Right,” Darcy sighed. “Except once I finish Afterworlds, I have to write the sequel, and then revise that. And my agent says that I should be promoting myself already!”
Nisha held up both hands, her fingers silently indicating nine “my agents.”
“Darcy,” her father said. “You know we’ve always supported your creativity. But wasn’t the main reason for writing the novel so you could put it on your college applications?”
“No!” Darcy cried. “Where did you get that idea?”
Annika Patel placed her palms together, as if praying for quiet. When she had everyone’s attention, her look of long suffering softened into a sly smile.
“Is this because you’re afraid of leaving home? I know that Ohio seems a long way away, but you can call us anytime.”
“Oh,” Darcy said, realizing that her announcement was incomplete. “I’m not staying here. I’m moving to New York.”
In the silence that followed, all Darcy could hear was Nisha chewing on a samosa. She wished that her little sister would at least try not to look so amused.
“New York City?” their mother finally asked.
“I want to be a writer, and that’s where publishing is.”
Annika Patel let out a slow, exasperated sigh. “You haven’t even let us read this book, Darcy. And now you want to give up college for this . . . dream.”
“I’m not giving it up, Mom, just deferring it for a year.” The right words finally came to her. “A year of studying the publishing industry. Learning all about it from the inside! Can you imagine what that would look like on a college application?” Darcy waved her hands. “I mean, except I won’t need to apply again, because I’m only deferring.”
Her voice took on a guilty quaver at the end. According to the Oberlin student manual, deferment was allowed only under “exceptional circumstances,” and the definition of “exceptional” was up to the school. They could say no, and then she’d have to start all over.