“I have a lot on my plate, AB,” my mother says. “Managing my own projects while trying to get this place in order. Then there is the stuff with your father, which I won’t talk to you about, because it’s none of your business. I don’t want to have this discussion with you anymore. We are selling The House, and that’s that. There are other people affected by this situation, you know.”
I’m kind of taken aback by this. Then I think that I spend so much time wanting my parents to treat me like an adult, and when they do, I get annoyed by it, and that’s not fair.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I am not the center of the universe. I know this all must be very hard for you.”
My mother sighs and gives me a hug as Napoleon growls gently between us. “Thank you for saying that. Now, if you don’t mind taking the general, I have to go take the trash out.”
I am just turning to head up the stairs with Napoleon when Sam and Elliot burst through the back door, all loud voices and laughter.
“Oh, hey,” Sam says to me. He gives an awkward glance at Elliot, but doesn’t say anything.
Elliot just stands there, watching me. He lifts a hand in the air, a silent hi.
“Hey,” I say back. “I was just heading upstairs. Try to keep the music to a minimum, if you don’t mind. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
But twenty minutes later, I am doing no work at all, because I finished it already. I’m lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, feeling sad and confused. Confused as to how Will could make me feel so warm and happy on our date, and how one silent hand gesture from Elliot could make me feel completely alone.
Napoleon appears in the doorway, eyeing me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
I follow his small, scraggy body as he makes delicate steps across the carpet, and then, after a deliberate pause, launches himself at the duvet.
Given that I have never seen him do anything of this nature before, I resolve to wait this out. And, like the miracle of a baby that is walking for the very first time, Napoleon tiptoes over my legs, and settles gently down on my blanket-covered stomach, rolling himself into a tight little ball and exhaling an audible sigh.
My eyes stay locked on Napoleon, once my mortal enemy, and I’m at a complete loss for what to do. I once resolved to hate him from the bottom of my soul, but the feeling of his little body resting on mine soothes me. Some small voice inside me wonders . . . can he tell I’m upset? Is Napoleon actually trying to make me feel better? I push it from my mind, but it still makes me think: Perhaps we are all capable of change.
18
What If I Don’t Know What I Want?
“YOU’RE GETTING better.” Epstein gives an encouraging nod as she slaps our latest assignment down on my desk on the following Monday morning. “You’re not quite there yet, but whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”
I glance at the letter written at the top of the page. B+. It’s about a full grade below what I usually get in my other classes, but in Fiction, it’s a start. If only I knew what got me here. I had a hard time making sense of everything after Clara showed up on Saturday, and nothing seemed to do the trick, so I ended up writing about it. Before I knew it, I was examining three perspectives. Me, coming down the stairs to face Elliot after our fight; my brother, cooking pancakes obliviously; and Elliot, sitting on the countertop, with two girls he had kissed in the same room.
And yes, I refused to give Clara a perspective. She hardly has a point of view as it is.
It bugs me that Elliot may have gotten me this B. Aside from that awkward moment with my brother, I haven’t talked to him since that morning. He reached out, once. He sent me some useless Van Morrison song, and “we should talk,” but I didn’t listen to it, and I’m not ready to talk. I don’t know what there is to say.
And besides, now that Clara’s back, I can only assume they are also back together. Or will be soon. I don’t need him to tell me that. I already know. I am Annabelle, who color-codes her calendar. And she is Clara, who speaks in nonspecific. And he is Elliot, who hates to be put in a box. Guess which girl is the better fit?
“Ms. Epstein?” I ask. “I have a question.”
Like many of my teachers, Epstein is wary of me. She had me for sophomore English, and she understands my questions are sometimes complicated, and that I am not easily satisfied, that with one question often comes three to four follow-ups. Even someone as passionate about her work as Epstein can find it tiring.
“Must we today, Annabelle?” Epstein sighs.
“I’m afraid we must,” I say solemnly.
“Fair enough, go ahead,” Epstein says, settling in, and leans her head against her fist.
“I know you talked to us a little bit about act structure the other day, and the highs and lows. But how does a writer know what those are, exactly? When you’re making it all up, how does it not become some kind of jumbled, tangled mess?”
To my surprise, Epstein nods. “It’s a great question, as usual, Annabelle.” She gets up and takes a place at the board.
Margot raises her hand. “Will this be on the test?” she asks.
“There are no tests in this class, only your final project.” Epstein doesn’t even bother turning from the board to answer.
“Then why do we take notes?” Margot says stubbornly.
At this, Epstein does turn around. “To learn something,” she says curtly. “Now as I was saying. When you’re writing a book, or even just a story, you don’t just arbitrarily choose your character, your time, your place. You need to understand your purpose. What are you really trying to say?” She writes the word character on the board, and taps it once with her whiteboard marker. “You need to understand you’re what’s driving them, what their hopes and dreams are. Many believe the best characters are those whose wants contrast directly with their needs. And that juxtaposition, the obstacles the character must face and the highs and lows they encounter while getting there, is what drives the plot.” Beneath character, Epstein has written drive, needs, wants.
“But what if I don’t know what I want?” I ask, exasperated, and then realize I sound ridiculous. And also, Epstein isn’t the person I’m angry at.
“I mean, it all just seems so contrived,” I cover. “I thought authors wrote organically, let things come to them. I didn’t realize it was all so . . . formulaic.”
Epstein mulls this over for a moment. “I hear what you’re saying,” she says. “But look at it this way. It’s for our benefit, our enjoyment. What you probably don’t realize is that as a reader, a viewer, you come to expect these highs and lows. You look forward to them. And in some cases, if you didn’t get them, you’d lose interest.”
Epstein goes about splitting us into groups to discuss our favorite books and movies and the narrative arcs within them.