“It’s for you. Just take it, okay?”
She accepts the bag and angles it toward the floodlights so she can see what’s inside. Her eyebrows scrunch together in that adorable way I’ve seen a million times, but now I’m not allowed to reach out and smooth the little crease between them. “Is this…a doughnut hole?”
“It’s the opposite of a doughnut,” I say, though the whole gimmick seems cheesy and ridiculous now that I have to explain it out loud. “I know it’s silly, but it’s supposed to symbolize that even though I don’t think we should date, I do really, really want to be your friend. And I know you’re not ready for that yet, and maybe you never will be, and I understand if you’re not. I know how much I hurt you, and I’m so, so sorry, and I hope you know that I never meant things to turn out this way. But you don’t have to, like, hide from me, okay? If you come back to the room, I won’t bother you. I won’t even talk to you, if you don’t want me to. I just don’t want things to feel so broken between us. And I’m sorry it took me so long to say all of this. I should’ve told you how I felt much sooner. And…that’s all, I guess.”
A tiny, irrational part of me hopes Zoe will throw herself into my arms and tell me she forgives me, that she wants to be friends, too. But of course that doesn’t happen. Zoe doesn’t say anything at all as she reaches into the little pink bag and pulls out the doughnut hole. For a few seconds, she holds it in her cupped palm and stares at it, like she thinks it might explode. And then she stuffs the whole thing into her mouth at once, cinnamon and sugar dusting the corners of her lips. As she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, I let a smile bloom across my face.
I can’t totally tell, because she’s chewing, but I think I see Zoe give me the ghost of a smile back. And when she turns around and walks into the party, she holds the door open for me.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the following people:
My editor, Wendy Loggia, master of building a structurally sound story. Thank you for always challenging me to think bigger…and to express those big ideas in fewer words.
Holly Root, agent extraordinaire, who laughed the first time I said “Bye Bye Banquo” and assured me other people would find it funny, too. Thanks for staying on my case to write this book. I’m so lucky to have you on my team.
Everyone at Delacorte Press who works tirelessly to make my books beautiful. Special thanks to Krista Vitola; my cover designer, Angela Carlino; and my copy editor, Bara MacNeill.
My brilliant beta readers: Lindsay Ribar, Michelle Schusterman, Kayla Olson, Corey Ann Haydu, Jennifer Malone, and Claire Legrand. I have no idea how anyone manages to write books without your help. Thank you for your honesty, kindness, patience, and perspective. I would be lost without you.
Jenna Scherer, who taught me about voice class; Sean Kelso, who filled in the gaps in my technical theater knowledge; and Elizabeth Otto and Mark McCauley, who explained how to fight electrical fires.
Williamstown Theater Festival, where I spent the most exhausting summer of my life working as a “lighting design assistant” (read: manual laborer) in 2004. As I hauled equipment up endless flights of stairs with my wimpy spaghetti arms, I told myself these experiences would be useful to me someday. And now, twelve years and two professions later, they finally have been.
The Hangar Theater in Ithaca, New York, where I had nearly all the best moments of my lighting design career. Marianna Caldwell, Evelyn Gaynor, and Rachel Handshaw, whom I met on the Hangar stage and who continue to be the best friends a girl could ask for. Pesha Rudnick, the director who told me it was my responsibility as an artist to show my audience how I see the world—I still think about that every time I write. And Kevin Moriarty, our artistic director and the man who coined the phrase “warriors for art.” Thank you for your boundless enthusiasm and support, and thank you for telling me it was okay to quit theater and seek artistic fulfillment elsewhere.
Elizabeth Little, who somehow survived being my roommate during my lighting design years. I’m so sorry about the performances I made you sit through.
My wonderful community of YA writers, who cheerlead and commiserate like champions. Thank you for being my people.
My mom, Susan Cherry, and my sister, Erica Kemmerling, who have always supported me no matter what I chose to do. Knowing you’re there for me makes everything seem possible.