“Hi,” he said, stepping up behind the microphone and giving the crowd a nervous smile before looking down again. “Thank you all so much for coming. I’m . . . actually going to read from my work in progress, if that’s okay.”
It was like the crowd all held their breath for a moment before everyone started talking at once. I noticed that Tom had an incredibly pleased look on his face, like he was thrilled he had known about this before the rest of the world.
“Uh—” Clark said, and everyone quieted down pretty quickly, seeming to realize that if they kept talking, they wouldn’t get to hear any of the new book. “It’s still pretty new. So it might change. Just letting you know so you don’t hold me to anything here.” There was low, polite laughter, and then Clark cleared his throat, looked down at the paper in front of him, and started to read.
For the next ten minutes the room was silent except for the sound of people’s camera phones clicking. You could have heard a pin drop as Clark read from a section of his new, untitled book. I listened, my hands twisted against each other and my heart in my throat, not quite able to believe what I was hearing, but for different reasons than the rest of the crowd in the bookstore.
Because it was about us.
It was about all of us—me, Palmer, Tom, Toby, Bri, even Wyatt—and the summer we’d had together. It was still set in Clark’s fantasy world, but it was about a group of friends off on an adventure together. And when Clark finished and there was deafening applause, I felt a piece of responsibility for it. Like maybe this new book wouldn’t be happening if it hadn’t been for me—if it hadn’t been for all of us.
Clark started taking questions then, and it seemed like every hand in the crowd was going up. People wanted to know why he’d taken so long to write the follow-up, where he got his inspiration, and what he thought about the casting of the movies. They wanted to know how to get an agent, when the new book would be out, and who his favorite authors were. The questions kept coming, until the aproned bookstore lady announced that they had time for only one more. Palmer gave me a look and I took a breath. I knew this was the moment. Clark was searching the room through all the hands that were waving frantically, but I didn’t wait to be called on. I just stepped forward into the aisle and said, a little too loudly, “Um. I have a question?”
“I’m actually calling on—” Clark started before he saw me. I saw his eyes widen before he composed himself, and I could tell that I’d surprised him. “You had a question?” Clark asked, giving me a small, tentative smile.
“Yes,” I said, making myself take another step forward, trying not to think about the fact that my dad and my friends and a middle-aged bus driver—as well as a crowd of hundreds of strangers with smartphones—were there, and that everyone was watching me. “I actually had a question about two of the more minor characters.”
“And who might those be?”
“Karl and Marjorie,” I said, and I heard the guy on the aisle next to me ask, “Wait, who?”
“It’s canon,” the guy next to him scoffed, and I made myself take another step forward.
I could do this. If whole galaxies could change, so I could I. For just a moment I thought about Palmer calling the play. She asked if the cue was ready but then didn’t wait to hear the response before giving the go-ahead. You got a warning, but not time to change your mind or come up with another plan. You just had to act.
“What about them?” Clark asked, and I could sense the restlessness of the bookstore lady next to him, probably wishing he’d just called on someone else.
“Just . . . I was wondering if you were committed to their ending,” I said. I heard the guy on the aisle scoff loudly again. “If . . . maybe there was any way it could be different.”
“Thanks so much for that question!” the bookstore lady said brightly, clapping her hands together, and my heart sank. Was I really going to be stopped by a random employee in an apron? Without even getting an answer?
“No, it’s okay,” Clark said, not looking away from me. “I’ll answer that.” He took a deep breath, and I could see his eyes searching mine, like he was looking for an answer. “I had thought that was the ending,” he finally said. “But I might have been wrong.”
“I was just thinking,” I said, sure that the rest of the crowd could probably hear how hard my heart was beating, since it seemed deafening to me, pounding in my ears, “that maybe Marjorie realized she was in love with Karl. And told him that. And said she was sorry for being scared.”
Clark nodded and glanced down at his papers, and suddenly a terrible fear shot through me. What if I was about to get rejected, here, in front of all these people? Was I about to be turned down in an incredibly public way?