“But what if I don’t know what I want anymore?” I ask.
“Then that’s okay, of course,” she says, looking at me as she sets the pillow on the bed. “You’re seventeen, honey. You have your whole life to figure it out. What’s the rush?”
I fold a throw blanket at the edge of my bed, and take a step back, deep in thought. I just can’t seem to get it straight in my head. If everything I thought I wanted was an idea or decision designed by Lucy Keating, then what would I want if Lucy Keating wasn’t deciding it for me?
“Does this have anything to do with Elliot?” my mom asks out of nowhere, and I jerk to attention. My mother knows everything. She knows when I’m upset before I even say so. She knows what outfit will look best on me when we go shopping, even if I originally snub my nose at it. But for once, she’s wrong.
“There’s nothing going on with Elliot,” I blurt out, then realize that’s not really what she asked, and my cheeks flush.
“You know he’s always had a thing for you,” she says.
“Mom!” I say. “This is zero of your business. Besides, Elliot and I can’t stand each other.”
My mother just smiles, walking out of the room. “If that’s what you think, you have a lot to learn about men.” She pauses in the doorway. “We don’t have to talk about it now. Any of it,” she says. “But whatever it is, I’m here if you need me. In the meantime, go to school. You know I’d let you stay if you wanted to, but we both know you’ll be mad at yourself later if you don’t go.”
I sigh, knowing she’s right. Again.
A couple of hours later, I’m speeding along the path at school, my destination in sight. There is only one truly gross, completely run-down building on the entirety of my high school campus, and oddly enough, it also happens to be my favorite place on Earth.
Cedar Spring was built on the bones of an old convent, which I originally thought would mean sparse décor and minimal light and lots of tiny, windowless rooms. Isn’t that what nuns do all day? Pray in tiny rooms? But instead the school is comprised almost entirely of white clay structures topped with classic red tile roofing. And since a lot of celebrity kids go here, anything that wasn’t already beautiful was made to be so.
Except the office of the Cedar Spring Gazette, which resides in a small, now-defunct utility building, all metal and exposed piping and Sheetrock. But it is also filled with light. Windows span from floor to ceiling, and there’s even a giant skylight where the roof should be. I’m not sure why a skylight was ever necessary in the original design, but regardless I am grateful for it.
The desks in the office are a million years old, and the place hasn’t been cleaned out since the club was founded. Chewing gum lines the bottom of every table, layers and layers of tape stick to the walls, not to mention there are so many pushpin holes you’d think the whole structure was about to cave in. The administration has offered to move us a bunch of times, but there is a certain pride in the place. It’s where we suffer, where we toil late into the night, all for the greater good of our small, six-hundred-student population.
The Gazette is my place. It’s where I can go to be alone between classes. And it’s where I really shine. I put on some giant headphones and work off an old Apple computer in the corner and nobody bugs me until the afternoon, when the club meets to assign stories.
The thing is, I like to check things off. I like to put a bunch of stories on the board and then draw a nice pretty line through them once they’re done. I like to fill in the slate every week. It’s why I applied to Columbia, where I plan to major in journalism and intern at all the best news stations in New York. I know I’m not even a legal adult yet; I know my mom said there’s a lot to figure out. But one thing I know about my future: Lucy Keating or no Lucy Keating, there will be words involved.
So if I can just get in there, just find someone who needs me to look at their latest piece of writing, or fix a layout issue with Hector, a budding graphic designer who I poached from the Art Club last semester, then I think I’ll start to feel a little more like myself again. The me that existed before—
“Hey!” I hear from behind me, and cringe a little bit, before finally turning around and plastering a small smile to my face.
But the smile becomes real when I see Will standing there, with his gray Will-like chinos and his plaid, Will-like button-down shirt; his long, fluffy Will eyelashes batting; and his cute Will mouth in a small smirk.
I hate what I am about to do to him.
“How’s your morning?” he asks good-naturedly. “Feeling better?”
I don’t blame him for checking in after I completely wigged out at the ice cream shop last night. I managed to pull it together and stick out the rest of the date, but something was definitely off, and he noticed. Not to mention I practically ran out of his car before he could kiss me. Not that I didn’t want to, exactly; I just had some other things on my mind. Like whether he was real or not.
“Feeling better,” I answer. “Thanks for asking.”
“What about a redo?” Will gazes down at me, and once again I get lost in his eyes. “You know, one that doesn’t get interrupted by a head injury? I found this cool Vietnamese place around the corner from school. I thought we could go at lunch.” Ray Woods, our social chair, captain of our basketball team, and Nisha’s greatest obsession, walks by and they share a quick nod and a handshake. Then Will looks back at me. I choose not to comment on the fact that he has been here for merely a few days, and is already on bro terms with one of the most respected guys in our school.
“I can’t, Will,” I say, and start walking in the direction of the Gazette again.
“Why not?” he asks, all innocent and sweet, as he follows me down the path.
“I have somewhere I need to be,” I say cryptically. A hole to hide in, I add to myself. Somewhere to get away from all this, and to maybe even figure out what the hell is really going on.
“I’ll go with you,” Will suggests matter-of-factly. Over on the right the girls’ varsity tennis team is splayed out on the lawn, eyeing him like a pride of lionesses ready to pounce. He doesn’t even notice.
“No,” I finally turn and say directly. “You cannot come.”
Will frowns, thinking, and I feel awful. He doesn’t deserve this. But then again, he isn’t even real. Thanks to Lucy Keating, he’s like a romantic punching bag. Before he can respond, I do.