“When I walked up to Elliot’s car today, he was playing this song over and over. And it just reminded me of the time we drove to that show.”
“It was The Kinks, and it was at the Pier, last summer,” Elliot says definitively. “The song I was playing was ‘She’s the One’ by Paper Girl. What’s your point exactly?”
I almost drop my spatula, realizing that’s the song from the concert, when I first felt energy between us, and he got hit with the drumstick. And he was playing it over and over again this morning? That means something, doesn’t it? I take a deep breath.
“You’re mad.” Clara pouts at Elliot. “I know you’re mad at me, babe. But I already told you: I knew as soon as I left on the tour that it was all wrong. I had to come back to you guys. I had to come back and fix everything.” I turn from the stove in time to see her go for Elliot’s hair again, and this time he all but ducks.
“Well, maybe we don’t need you anymore, Clara,” Elliot says.
“Actually, we do kind of need her,” Sam says. “While you were off wherever you were last night that you won’t tell me about, Trey Olsen approached me at Carter’s party. He had someone drop out of opening for Jacuzzi Kill next week and he’s asked us to step in.”
“Shut up,” Elliot says, and high-fives him.
“This is incredible!” Clara squeals.
“You are not a part of this,” Elliot says.
“Who else is going to sing, dude?” Sam asks.
Elliot sighs heavily.
“I know you’re mad right now, babe,” Clara says again, and this time when she rests a hand on Elliot’s back, he lets it stay there. “But I’m here. And sooner or later you’re going to have to accept that.”
At this point I can’t take it anymore. I walk out into the front yard, leaving my pancakes to burn, and bury my face in my hands, smoothing out my eyebrows to de-stress, a technique we learned in gym class. This is all wrong. This is not what was supposed to happen. Why is Lucy Keating doing this?
“Isn’t this enough?” I say out loud. “You’ve got your drama and your intrigue! You even got your sexy midnight swim! Can’t you just say the story is over?”
I hear the sound of a little biplane passing overhead, and drop my hands to look up. Written across the sky in big, loopy, letters is:
Sorry!
16
Is It That Kind of Book?
ANXIETY NEVER used to be something I was particularly familiar with. At least, not until this whole literary fiasco happened. When problems arise, I usually just handle them. I never understand when I see classmates in the library in tears because they have a paper due they aren’t even close to finishing. How did they get there? They knew when their deadline was. Why didn’t they just make the time?
I have to admit, though, this whole thing with Lucy Keating has set me off my game, because you can’t be prepared for things you didn’t see coming. Epstein taught us all about act structure and character arcs, the highs and lows a protagonist must go through to reach the resolution to their conflict.
“Not every novelist does this, but Lucy writes her books with distinct act breaks,” she told us in class the other day. “So did Shakespeare. At the end of Act One, the characters learn of their debacle—i.e., Romeo and Juliet learn their families are sworn enemies. The next low would be when they think they are going to have happily ever after, but something awful happens, like when Mercutio dies. At the end of the Act Two high, Romeo and Juliet have hatched a plan to run away together and we think it’s going to work. Hooray!” She pumped her fist into the air. “The third act low is the lowest low, the most dramatic—i.e., the death of the two characters. Does that make sense?”
It did make sense, back in the classroom. And it was also really interesting. Now, sitting in my bedroom at home, after the Clara run-in in my kitchen, it’s a huge pain in my butt. How am I expected to function when I don’t even know where I am in my story? The moment Elliot and I kissed, I actually thought, This could be my Happy Ending. But what if we aren’t even at the midpoint? How many highs and lows do I have to go? And am I supposed to give Will a shot, knowing full well someone is writing us to be together?
And so, I know what I have to do. That is, in this case, I must do nothing. Literally. I’ve decided not to leave my room until I have this whole thing under control. After all, if I can’t leave my room, I can’t really do anything interesting. And who wants to read a book about someone who doesn’t do anything?
“So you’ve got this totally under control?” Ava says on my front lawn when she stops by to pick up my phone. If I don’t have a phone, I can’t be texted. By Will or Elliot. And if I can’t be texted, I can’t flirt or fight or even chat. Eventually, she’ll have to give up on this story and we’ll see how things really are, right?
“Totally under control,” I say with a confident nod.
“And totally under control to you means hiding in your room until Monday?” Ava says.
“Whatever gets the job done.” I shrug.
Ava gives a small military send-off. “Godspeed,” she says, and hops on her bike to go meet Navid at the beach.
Things aren’t going totally to plan, however. For one thing, it’s only been eight hours, and I’m losing my mind. I’ve finished all my homework for the following week, and reorganized my bedroom twice. Now I’m just curled up in my bed, watching my secret vice, the thing that always relaxes me when it’s too rainy to run, or I’m sick or injured: It’s a reality TV show where fifteen amateur baking contestants from the United Kingdom compete against one another at an old English estate for the title of master baker and a grand prize.
Something about the diligence with which they measure out their dry ingredients, the smoothness of the pastry, and the jovial way they conduct themselves in such a competitive environment sets me at peace with the world.
A few hours later, I have just finished my fourth episode in a row when there is a heavy knocking on my door.
I shoot up out of bed like a character in a bad spy movie. “Who is it?” I call out.
“Your brother,” Sam says. “Let me in.”
“No,” I reply.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Are you alone?” I shoot back.
“What? Of course I’m alone!” He sounds exasperated. “Who would I be with?”
Elliot, I think, obviously. But I keep the thought to myself.
“Okay, I have better things to do than stand outside your door all day, but Mom says if you don’t come down for dinner, the world will end,” Sam says.
“Is it that kind of book?” I whisper. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Lucy is a romance writer. Beach cottages and European vacations, Manhattan love stories. But what if she is taking a departure into new territory beyond Happy Endings. What is next? Zombies?