Amy Chen
not a big deal! i cried for a week when i moved into my dorm.
3:47 PM
Amy Chen
i’m still crying because i’m going to be paying off student loans until i’m 40.
3:47 PM
Elle Carter
Wait! Didn’t you settle on UT Austin to SAVE money?
3:47 PM
Amy Chen
yup!! college is a scam!! if more sponsorships came through i’d honestly consider booktubing full time
3:48 PM
omg so then I could say I’m friends with a NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING author /and/ a CAREER YOUTUBER???
3:49 PM
Elle Carter
omg stop it I’m blushing!
3:49 PM
Amy Chen
pray to the gods of monetization for me please!!
3:49 PM
Samira Lee
3:49 PM
Elle Carter
3:49 PM
3:49 PM
Samira Lee
Also. Hold up. Elle. You let Kels read
IT’LL NEVER BE YOU????
3:50 PM
SHE DID AND IT’S AMAZING
3:51 PM
Elle Carter
You think anything pitched as “hate-to-love” is amazing, Kels
3:52 PM
BECAUSE IT IS
3:52 PM
Samira Lee
BECAUSE IT IS
3:52 PM
Elle Carter
Well. Thank you. It actually might not be trash? Lilah thinks we can go on sub next month.
I send a string of screaming emojis, then thank Samira for the super-casual segue in our private chat. Amy and Elle frequently spiral into a Kels + Nash = Endless Hearts rabbit hole. It’s pretty cringe-y, but at least Samira is always on my side.
Samira Lee
Totally natural segues are my specialty. See.
3:54 PM
My phone blows up again with twelve new pictures of Brooklyn.
Back in the group chat, the subject shifts.
Samira Lee
Wait. Kels. Have you heard from AG’s people?
4:01 PM
not yet!
4:02 PM
i’m stressed!!
4:03 PM
Elle Carter
Don’t stress! It’s PUBLISHING. So like. Expecting a response today most definitely means you won’t get one until next week.
4:03 PM
Elle is probably right, but I can’t focus on blog content now anyway, so I let my eyes wander to the shelves around me. I have a prime window seat in the YA section, which I finally found after climbing up a winding staircase and through a narrow corridor. I’ve been here a handful of times, only on the off chance that Grams didn’t have a book I was looking for, but the YA section is somehow smaller than I remember. Then again, it’s a small library. My eye lands on the first two books in a new epic fantasy series that Amy recommended to me, so I get up to grab them. Then I pause at the NEW AND NOTEWORTHY endcap, stalling. I know I should check these out and go home, but I’m not ready to go back to that house and face Gramps.
I sit down instead and refresh my email while the group chain fires away in the background. Still nothing.
Well, if I’m not leaving, maybe I can at least be somewhat productive, with the promise of two new books to read as a reward. I minimize the group chat and reopen the article for Teen Vogue. It’s not due until next week, but I’m hoping to get a draft prepared before school starts. It’s a feature on Jewish YA—listing all my favorite books with Jewish protagonists, written by Jewish authors.
Ariel Goldberg is of course at the top of the list. Her twisty psychological thrillers star Jewish teens and her debut was the first time I felt seen in genre fiction. I want this article to help others feel that way too.
I put on headphones, play my #amwriting playlist on Spotify—a perfect combination of soft rock and acoustic covers—and find my rhythm in blurbing each book I’ve selected for the listicle.
“Hey. Mind if I sit here?” I barely notice the voice, but I do register the tall shadow standing above me.
“Go for it,” I say, not breaking eye contact with my screen. I can’t lose my flow now.
It’s my first Teen Vogue piece, but I’m planning to pitch a monthly column to an editor I’m a Twitter mutual with. All posts would include a link to One True Pastry, which would be huge. I’m currently being hyped as their teen contributor, so I feel like there’s a decent shot. I’m aware that my teen factor has an expiration date, but for now? I totally embrace it. Let me be a teen voice on any and all major media platforms! I’ll never say no. I built One True Pastry on being for teens, by a teen.
Because engaging with adults who think YA is for them? It’s exhausting.
Twenty minutes later, I click “save draft.” It’s not exactly what I needed to do today, but after twelve hours in the car and narrowly avoiding a panic attack, it’s something.
My laptop dings with a new email notification—and my chest tightens for the millionth time today.
I glance at the clock.
It’s four thirty-two. Almost the end of the workday. Unlikely.
But possible.
I exhale and click the “Inbox (1)” tab.
Subject: READ BETWEEN THE LIES Cover Reveal
Oh God.
It’s a rejection.
I feel it in my bones.
My cursor hovers over the email. It might seem small, waiting for a cover reveal, but it’s everything. Ariel Goldberg hasn’t released a new book in three years. In publishing, where so many popular authors are on a book-a-year schedule, this feels like a lifetime. Hosting a highly anticipated cover reveal like this one? One that should probably go to a major media outlet? It’s exactly what One True Pastry needs to keep the momentum, to rise above the everyone-has-one kind of blogs out there, to be noticed by industry professionals and impress NYU admissions.
Now that the email is here in front of me though, and I have the power to click … I almost don’t want to know. I thought no email was worse than a rejection. I take it back. Why did I ever think I wanted something in writing telling me I’m not good enough?
I wait a full minute, then click on the email before I change my mind.
Hi Kels!
I’m Alyssa Peterson, Ariel Goldberg’s publicist. I’m so excited to confirm that Ariel would LOVE for One True Pastry to host the exclusive cover reveal for Read Between the Lies.
I reread confirm and love twelve times before I am convinced that’s really what it says.
I got the Ariel Goldberg cover reveal. Me, Kels from One True Pastry.
Oh my God.
I slam my computer shut.
The sound reverberates through the silence.
Sorry, I mouth to the person sharing my table, trying to contain the stupid smile that must be spreading across my face. I make eye contact with him and for the second time in literally thirty seconds, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. I blink once.
I’m hallucinating. It’s the only logical explanation.
“Good news?” he asks—but really, he’s trying not to laugh.
“You could say that,” I say.
How am I speaking? How am I breathing?
He isn’t a hallucination.
I know him.
Well, I, Halle, don’t know him.
Kels knows him.
In fact, he’s kind of Kels’s best friend.
July, the summer before Middleton
BookCon @thebookcon 1hr
Calling all bloggers! Do you want to be a voice at one of publishing’s biggest events? For the first time, we’re opening applications for a blogger-only panel, aptly called Bloggers IRL! Applications are due September 1.
Apply here: https://bit.ly/2IX3iAs
|
Nash Stevens @Nash_Stevens27 1hr
@thebookcon @OneTruePastry
Direct messages
Nash Stevens
Heeeeey! Did you see that BookCon is having a blogger panel at next year’s conference?
2:27 PM
Dumb question. I tagged you. You saw it.
2:27 PM
So. Proposal. I think we should apply for it.
2:28 PM
hahaha okay sure
2:29 PM
Kels. I’m serious.
2:30 PM
you are? come on. CALLING ALL BLOGGERS is code for famous, influential bloggers. the people who write think pieces for national publications, but actually know nothing about YA or the blogging community.
2:32 PM
Wow. Harsh.
2:32 PM
You need to give yourself more credit sometimes, you know? Don’t you have like … 100K Instagram followers?
2:33 PM
110.2K
2:34 PM
SEE. I think you’re probably exactly what BookCon is looking for.
2:35 PM
only my cupcakes are viral. my actual blog stats are still pretty mid-level. i don’t know.
2:37 PM
Well, I think we should give it a shot. What do we have to lose?
3:00 PM
our dignity when the BookCon
committee laughs at us
3:01 PM
… You are so dramatic.
3:02 PM
okay. i thought about it. let’s give it a shot, why not. on the miniscule chance this works, we’re definitely getting into NYU with this on our application.
4:34 PM
That’s a valid point.
4:35 PM
We’d also meet. Like. In person.
4:35 PM
really? that thought did not cross my mind,
not once
4:36 PM
Ha?
4:37 PM
don’t you ever worry it’ll be weird? meeting?
4:37 PM
Sometimes I guess, but I think we should let the BookCon gods decide. Because like … if we both manage to somehow get onto this thing?
4:38 PM
I’m pretty sure that means we’re supposed to meet.
4:39 PM
THREE
If words weren’t the absolute worst, I’d say, Nash, It’s me.
I don’t know how to explain it so it makes sense. Nash. It’s me, Kels. We were just talking about how I’ve never seen Lord of the Rings and oh, by the way, I got the cover reveal! I’m Kels—except I’m not Kels, I’m Halle. But … you can call me Kels. Though everyone else will probably call me Halle, so that could get weird. But yeah! Wow! Hi!
It would be a catastrophe. I would be a catastrophe.
He’s so boyish in person. Without the thick black hipster glasses he wears in his Twitter picture, he looks younger. His dark hair is longer, too, falling into his eyes. His eyes. I knew they were brown, but they also have specks of gold—I had no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of him as a height, but he’s tall and all limbs. I mean, Kels knows he runs track. But now I see it, you know? I see how all the pieces fit together and become Nash IRL.
“I’m Nash.”
His voice is a melody I never imagined I’d hear. And I almost don’t understand why he’s introducing himself, but of course he has no clue who I am. Why would he? My current picture is an artsy photograph of the back of my head, my hair long and blowing in the wind. My face is always obscured in posts. It helps to mold my persona, a version of me that is cooler and more mysterious than I am in real life.
I’m Kels. That’s what I should say.
“Halle” is what comes out.
It’s the truth, but it feels like a lie.
“Cool.” He smiles, and my God, it’s so much better than the smiley-face emoji. “Are you just visiting?”
I shake my head no because words are stuck in my throat.
“Wait—”
Oh, thank God. I don’t have to tell him. He knows.
“—you’re Professor Levitt’s granddaughter, right?”
Professor Levitt? Nash knows Gramps? My Gramps. What?
“It’s not weird that I know that, I swear. I’m in his art history class. First class was supposed to be tonight, but he postponed it. Said his grandchildren were moving in. We don’t get too many new people in Middleton, so I kind of put two and two together.”
I exhale, not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
Wait. Nash is in high school, I thought. We’re working on college applications—not in college classes. Next year it’s supposed to be us, meeting as freshmen at NYU, spending time in every bookstore downtown between classes and exploring the rest of the city on the weekends. If Nash takes classes with Gramps at UConn, if Nash is in college—well, that calls into question pretty much everything I know about him. Oh God, what if Nash is a catfishing liar?
“So … you commute?” I ask.
He looks at me funny and I can already feel my neck flush pink.
“To UConn,” I clarify.
“Oh. No, I’m not—MHS doesn’t have any art history classes, so your grandfather offered to let me into his. But yeah, high school. I am in it.”
Breathe. Nash is just perfectly nerdy and not a creep.
“Me too,” I say, which is when it hits me.
MHS. Middleton High School. As in my new high school.
“Cool. Where’d you move from?”
“New York. Upstate,” I lie without flinching, the words flying out of my mouth before I can even think them through. I have never been to upstate New York in my life. I don’t know why I say this. As far as Nash knows, Kels is moving from an army base in Georgia to North Carolina. Kels is comfortably in the South—hundreds of miles away from Nash.
“Well, welcome to Middleton,” he says. He looks down at his watch and frowns. “I have an ungodly stack of books to check out before the library closes, but I’ll see you around?”
He stands up as I nod, swoops his messenger bag over his shoulder, and is gone with a wave.
Oh my God. I knew Nash was from Connecticut but—I never thought to ask where.
I didn’t think it mattered, because it’s not like I planned on telling him that I—well, Kels—moved to Connecticut. Never did I ever think he’d be here, with me, in Middle-of-Freaking-Nowhere, Connecticut. Because who really lives here? No one I’ve ever talked to has even heard of this place.
If Nash knew Kels was in Connecticut, he’d want to meet. I wasn’t—I’m not—ready for that. We were supposed to meet in Washington Square Park, ready for orientation.
It was supposed to happen then, when I would be the closest version of Kels, for real, living the life Nash and Kels always talked about.
I glance at my phone-clock. Ollie texted me that dinner was almost ready fifteen minutes ago. I pack up my laptop and wipe the sweat beads off my forehead. Breathe in and out slowly to try to force my heart rate to recover.
Nash is here. In Middleton.
We’re going to school together. We’re going to graduate together.
He has no clue who I am.
And … I have no clue what to do.
If I could never tell Nash who I really am online, where I’m the most confident, chill version of me, how can I ever form the words in person?
* * *
Ollie heated up ramen noodles for dinner and nothing is okay.
I got the Ariel Goldberg cover reveal, but Nash is here.
Ollie is twirling noodles with a fork and watching Netflix on his phone. My bowl is set up at the seat adjacent to his and my chest tightens because Ollie made dinner. He set the table, even filled a pitcher with water, but there are only two place settings.
“It’s probably cold,” Ollie says, pausing his show. “If you want to, reheat it on the stove.”
I sit next to Ollie. “Where’s Gramps?”
Ollie shrugs. “Asleep, I think. I don’t know. He hasn’t come out of his room since you left.”
I pick up my fork and twirl noodles. “It’s
not even six.”
“Yeah. I’m really confused.”
“Me too,” I say. “Thanks for dinner.”
Ollie snorts. “Ramen isn’t dinner. But honestly, it was the best option. Gramps only has cereal and snack foods, basically. We need to go grocery shopping.”
I eat the cold ramen. Ollie returns his attention to his show. If Grams were here, we’d be eating matzo ball soup. It’d be a whole production, Ollie and me helping to roll the matzo meal into walnut-size balls after the stock has been simmering on the stove all afternoon. I wasn’t expecting a Grams-quality dinner tonight—but I did expect the three of us to at least eat dinner. Together.
He’s not okay, Grams, I think, looking down at the necklace resting against my heart. In my head, I talk to Grams a lot. Like whenever I read a really great book, or see a movie I know would make her laugh, or have a Major Life Event.
Does meeting Nash in person qualify as a Major Life Event?
Grams would call it destiny.
We were making frosting together when One True Pastry was born, three summers ago.
“Did you always know you wanted to be an editor?” I had asked, adding two drops of purple food coloring to buttercream frosting. We were going to surprise Gramps with lemon lavender today, even though red velvet is his real favorite.
Grams nodded. “Always. I love stories. Figuring out what makes them tick, how the pieces fit together. Seeing people like you fall in love with them.” She winked at me as she stirred her own bowl of yellow frosting, her eyebrows pinched in concentration. Lavender lemon meant we had to use two piping bags to swirl the colors together.
“Do you think I could maybe be an editor?”
My cheeks flushed immediately. I loved talking about books with her, but I’d never vocalized my publishing dreams out loud before to anyone. It seemed absurd to even try when Grams was already, like, the Judy Blume of children’s editors.
Grams looked at me. “I think you’d be an amazing editor, Hal. But the way you talk about books, you’re already a publicist.”
What I Like About You Page 3
