NOPE.
“So, let’s see,” Epstein is saying. I have completely lost track of the conversation. We could suddenly be having this class at an aquarium, and I wouldn’t have noticed. “Once I stumble upon the right idea, I’ll write up a short pitch, work on some character development, and create an outline. I’ll work off that until I have a manuscript, and after a few revisions I’ll send it to my publisher.”
“And then what happens?” Maya asks. She must really want to be a writer. It’s cool she’s taking it so seriously.
Epstein thinks. “Well, I’ve got my Editor, with a capital E, who works with me on the big picture. She helps shape the book into what it will be. Then I’ve got a copy editor, who goes through when the book is finished to query anything that doesn’t make sense.”
At this point, Margot Dunravey’s hand shoots up in the first row. As far as I’m concerned, Margot and Napoleon belong in the same circle of hell. Margot and I have a few things in common: We’re both driven, both straight-A students, both occasionally misunderstood. Here are a few things Napoleon and Margot have in common: They are both territorial, cutthroat, and have been known to growl when particularly frustrated.
My least favorite thing about Margot is that she always asks questions that everyone already knows the answers to. She doesn’t even care what the answer is; she just wants the credit for asking. I ask a lot of questions, too, but at least mine are useful. Most of the time.
“You mentioned a copy editor points out things that don’t make sense. What do you mean by that?”
“That’s a good question Margot,” Epstein says, barely hiding her surprise. “The Editor mostly focuses on the bigger picture, and making the story the best it can be. The copy editor catches any last issues, spelling mistakes, if it was four P.M. in chapter twelve, and in chapter thirteen it’s suddenly nine A.M. two days earlier. My favorite example I always like to use is, my copy editor makes sure my characters don’t have blue eyes in one scene, and brown eyes in another.”
Margot nods and scribbles violently in her notebook, and my own hand shoots up.
“But why would they?” I ask in confusion.
“Why would they what?” Epstein asks.
“Why would they be blue in one chapter and brown in another?” I ask. “You’re the author; you’re writing it. Wouldn’t you just know?”
Epstein lets out a tired breath. “Sometimes you forget. A book has a lot of words in it. You can get caught up in other things in the story, and it slips your mind. Don’t you ever forget anything, Annabelle?”
“Not really,” I say honestly. The whole classroom around me laughs.
“Well, lucky you.” Epstein smiles, and leans back on her desk with her arms crossed. “Sounds like you’ve got copy editor potential. If anyone needs their stories proofread, Annabelle’s your girl.”
Just then another pen lands on my desk. When I unroll the paper this time, it says:
PICK YOU UP AT EIGHT?
I steal a glance at Will. He’s pretending to listen to Epstein, leaning forward over his desk with his head resting between two fingers as he looks at her, but the smile on his lips is definitely for me. The concert. Out of nowhere I feel nauseous, but in a weirdly enjoyable way.
As class lets out, I hand the pen back to Will again. Written on the paper are two words:
Can’t wait.
7
We Had a Slight Accident
“HOW ARE you doing, kiddo?” my dad asks when he walks into the kitchen that night, pulling a wool sweater over his head. I’m scrambling to finish up a problem set before Will gets here. I had trouble figuring out what color to put the concert under in my calendar. Was it really “Friends/Fun”? In the end, I decided to create a new color. A deep mauvy red. I labeled it “Romance.” And then immediately wanted to hide from myself.
I look up and notice that The Evil One has trailed my father into the kitchen and is staring at me disdainfully. With my eyes, I dare him to snarl or bark, but I know he won’t. Never in front of my dad. It’s how Napoleon maintains his innocence.
Now I sigh and look my father in the eye. “I don’t know how I’m doing,” I answer honestly. I decided to shut that part of my brain off temporarily. If all else fails, that’s what I do with the unknown. Ignore it until I can do something about it.
“Look, you,” Dad says, and rests a hand on my shoulder. Napoleon twitches, but doesn’t move. “You’re a planner. You like to know what’s coming. And I’m sorry we are putting you in a position where you don’t have that security. But you have to trust Mom and me to make the right decisions here, and you have to focus on you. Finishing out the school year. What you’re going to do this summer. Columbia. Let us handle the rest. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay,” I agree.
“We love you. You and your brother. No matter how much things change around here, that never will. I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “And neither is your mother.”
This one I can’t respond to. If I do, I might start crying, and I don’t want to be blubbering when Will shows up. So I just nod.
“You wanna come for a walk with me and Napoleon?” he asks.
I snort. “No thanks.”
“I thought not.” My dad sighs. He looks down at Napoleon, who looks back up at him, waiting. “Come on, General,” I hear him say as they walk off together toward the mudroom, Napoleon hustling happily at his side.
A few minutes later there is a light knock at the kitchen door, and Will is there, grinning with his hands in his pockets. He has on a gray T-shirt and worn-in jeans, and his cheeks are kind of flushed. He radiates warmth. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” I grin back. “You could’ve just texted from the car when you got here, you know.”
Wills expression turns quizzical. “On a date? No way.”
I grab my bag and pick up the jacket he lent me in the rain from a chair at the kitchen table. You are going on a date, I say to myself.
“Here,” I tell him, holding out the jacket. “Didn’t want to forget to give this back to you.”
Will looks at the jacket and makes a face, his shoulders shrugging. “Nah, you keep that,” he says. “I have an extra sweater for you in the car anyway.”
It takes us thirty-five minutes to get to The Wiltern theater, and the scene outside is buzzing. It’s in an iconic building in central LA, with a giant, split-level foyer in the shape of a circle.
“I like this place because it manages to fit a lot of people, but you almost never feel too far away from the stage,” I tell Will over my shoulder.