“It’s nothing personal, Will. Really. Last night was fun. I’m just behind on a lot of stuff. I need to go handle some things. I’ll see you later. Okay?” And before he can say another word, I lose myself in the sea of people heading to first period.
And yet, despite my best efforts, Will is everywhere I need to be today. I should be thrilled by this, the fact that I can’t escape him. That he’s in the Gazette room, being interviewed for an article about what it’s like to be “new” only months before school is over.
That he’s giving a presentation in my physics class, which he isn’t even in, on a small solar-powered car he designed at his old school.
That at an all-school meeting, I get stopped on the way by Dr. Piper and the only seat left is next to him.
I should be thrilled by it all, and by how thrilled he is to see me, but I’m not. I can’t think with him around. And right now, I really need to think.
At four P.M. I burst through the doors of the library, and find Nisha, Ava, and Lee draped over various chairs and tables, pretending to do their homework. They acknowledge me with bored nods, and I settle in peacefully, and open my computer to scan today’s New York Times for interesting articles. Something pops up that says “More Facts Discovered about Teenager from the Bronze Age.”
My interest piqued, I click the link, and end up reading an article about the Egtved Girl, who was dug up almost one hundred years ago, and is believed to date back thousands of years before that. Originally, scientists believed she was native to the town in Denmark where she was found, but further scientific analysis has discovered she may have traveled great distances, and seen a great deal of her region of the world.
“Probably because nobody was writing her story without her consent,” I whisper to myself.
Two minutes later, the door to the library swings open again, and I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Will. It would be anyway, and also all my friends just got weird and fidgety.
“The Egtved Girl,” Will says, peering over my shoulder, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I read about her earlier today. So cool, right? She surprised us all.”
Despite wanting to escape him, I soften at this thoughtful comment. “That’s exactly what I was just thinking,” I say, and Will smiles, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me.
“Are you still busy?” he asks. I am about to tell him yes, but when I see the look of pure adoration in his eyes, what ends up coming out is “Not really.”
“Good.” He grins. “I got you something.”
“Why?” I groan. Why does he have to be so perfect? But he doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s called The Elements of Style.” Will pulls a slim book out of his backpack. “We used it at my old school. I know you said you’re having a hard time in Epstein’s class, and this is, like, the go-to, old-school manifesto on the rules of writing. It doesn’t discuss creative writing much, but I thought it might remind you why you fell in love with words in the first place. Structure, organization, simplicity.”
I open the book and flip to a page:
“It is an old observation,” he wrote, “that the best writers sometimes disregard the rules of rhetoric. When they do so, however, the reader will usually find in the sentence some compensating merit, attained at the cost of the violation. Unless he is certain of doing as well, he will probably do best to follow the rules.”
I look up. “Will,” I say. “This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever given me.”
Will just shrugs. “Do you really like it?”
“I love it,” I tell him, and I mean it.
Will bites his bottom lip, and suddenly, I feel like we are the only two people in the room.
“Also, hey”—he clears his throat and turns to my friends—“I’m throwing a big party at my parents’ place this weekend. I know it’s kinda weird since I’m so new, and I’m still getting to know everyone. But it’s their gift to me since they uprooted me from my old school with basically no notice.”
“A party?” Nisha asks, her eyes are huge, and she looks like she might dance on top of the table, she’s so excited. Ava’s hands are clasped together like a Disney princess.
“A big one,” Will says conspiratorially.
A whoop erupts from their chairs, causing a shush from the librarian, but I continue to sit there, thumbing through the pages of the book. It’s filled with deliberate, beautiful language on what makes a good paragraph, and even a list of “words commonly misused.” I’m sure most of my friends would fall asleep reading this, but to me it’s perfect. And the fact that Will would know this bewilders me.
“Annabelle, you’ll come, right?” I hear him ask imploringly.
My head feels like it’s filled with fog. Should I go? This is insanity. He might not even be real. I might not even be real. But it’s just a party.
I look up at my friends’ eager faces, at Will’s questioning eyes, and back down at the book in my hand. “I’ll think about it.”
10
Where Warmth Begins
WHEN MY dad picks me up from school that afternoon, he says we have to stop by the vet to pick up Napoleon.
“What did he do this time?” I ask.
“I don’t like your tone,” my father says, just as we’re crossing Washington Boulevard. “But for your information, it seems his intention to eat all our socks and underwear has caused a bit of a blockage. He’s going to be okay, but they had to sedate him.”
“They always have to sedate him,” I say. Napoleon has had three vets and six groomers since he’s been a member of our family. When you call to make an appointment, they just say, “Oh.” Maybe that’s one of the reasons he’s so mean. Everyone keeps breaking up with him.
In the linoleum-floored waiting area, we sit in plastic-backed chairs, surrounded by unhappy felines and morose hounds. One chubby little terrier is pulled back into an exam room butt first, his front paws stretched out in front of him desperately, as though headed toward certain death. “It’s just a checkup, Harvey!” his human companion exclaims.
My father reads a script on his iPad, and I open The Elements of Style, thinking about Will.
Part II, Article 17: A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that he make every word tell.