What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  There are so many notifications. It’s mostly everyone still fuming about the revelation that Alanna LaForest, author of the book of my heart … hates teenagers. It’s horrifying. If Grams were here, she’d be in total damage control mode. Grams was always a staunch believer in publishing books that speak to teenagers, in finding authors who did that better than anyone. It feels almost like an attack against her just as much as us teens.

  I don’t know how to process this information. So I leave the group chat messages unread and reply to Nash’s instead, time-stamped an hour ago.

  Nash Stevens

  Question.

  4:01 PM

  I only have fifteen—well, twelve—minutes until kitchen duty, but I’m too curious to not immediately respond.

  answer

  5:04 PM

  When do you throw in the towel? Re: like, trying to be friends with someone.

  5:04 PM

  My face gets hot reading Nash’s words. He means me, Halle. I know he does. This keeps happening. Every time we text lately, she—I—somehow comes up. It’s weird. I don’t know how to answer his question honestly, so I revert to Kels’s defense mechanism. Snark.

  when you start speaking in clichés

  5:06 PM

  … Wow. I’m being serious right now.

  5:06 PM

  by someone you mean halle?

  5:07 PM

  Talking about myself with Nash? It’s the worst part of this whole situation.

  Yeah.

  5:07 PM

  you don’t have to be friends with everyone

  5:08 PM

  You don’t get it. I’ve never been iced like this before. But then I’ll make a stupid joke at lunch and she’ll laugh. I don’t understand anything.

  5:10 PM

  I do laugh at his stupid jokes.

  pity laughs, prob.

  5:10 PM

  … Can you at least TRY to be serious?

  5:11 PM

  OK FINE

  5:11 PM

  maybe you’re coming on too strong?

  5:12 PM

  He’s not.

  She got a job at Sawyer’s bakery. Sawyer says she’s cool at work. But when I try to talk Shakespeare with her in AP lit, she’s total ice. And she’s supposed to like books! But she’s clearly able to talk to my friends. Why not me?

  5:13 PM

  Because if we become friends, Nash, I’ll have to tell you the truth. Everything will change, and I’m still too attached to this version of us.

  … i can’t answer that

  5:14 PM

  question

  5:14 PM

  Answer.

  5:14 PM

  why do you care so much?

  5:15 PM

  The typing text bubble appears, and I can see Nash on the other side of the screen, typing and deleting and typing and deleting. The bubbles disappear and I’m dying to know what Nash is trying to say—but before he can send anything my fifteen is up and kitchen duty awaits me.

  I toss my phone back into my tote and make my way toward the kitchen, toward the cupcakes, but my head is still with the three bubbles, locked up tight.

  * * *

  The worst part about baking cupcakes is without a doubt cleaning up the mess.

  Sawyer fiddles with the hot and cold handles on the faucet until he achieves the perfect dish-washing temperature. The sink is large enough that we can work together to finish ASAP.

  “So how was your first Saturday rush?” Sawyer asks.

  “Pretty good,” I say.

  “You’re like a different person here,” he says. “It’s cool.”

  I almost ask what he means by that, but I don’t need to. At Maple Street Sweets, I’m not worried about giving myself away. I’m comfortable around cupcakes. Also, it’s just easier for me to talk to the members of Le Crew one at a time. In groups, my brain goes into overdrive and it feels like I never know how to naturally contribute to a conversation. One-on-one is better. My anxious brain shuts off and I can even joke around. It’s new. Almost like I’m writing a killer line for OTP. My words flow instead of sputter.

  I make a face, then deflect. “Must be the sugar. You love cupcakes too.”

  “I do,” he says. “I’d be here more, if I could.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Baseball,” Sawyer says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “It’s my ticket out of Middleton,” Sawyer says. “My parents are so serious about my future, you know? I tell them I’d be happy to stay, to someday take over the bakery. I don’t know what I want to study, I don’t even know if I want to go to college. I do know I want to keep the bakery in the family. They won’t hear it, though.”

  I nod. Conversations with Sawyer don’t usually get this real, and for the first time all shift, I’m not sure what the right thing is to say.

  A moment later, the kitchen door swings open.

  “Oh. Hey, Upstate,” Nash says, plucking an unfrosted vanilla cupcake off the cooling rack and jumping up to sit on one of the countertops.

  My heart twists in my chest every time he calls me by my lie.

  “Hi,” I say, wondering what gives Nash the privilege to sit on the countertops we just wiped down.

  “Employees only, dude,” Sawyer fake deadpans.

  “Diana said you were wrapping up,” Nash says, undeterred.

  Sawyer grins and grabs a rag and a bottle of disinfectant spray from the cabinet. “We are. If you can finish up in here, Hal-lee, I’ll take care of the tables.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  I reach for a clean dishrag and continue doing the dishes, hoping Nash will follow Sawyer from the kitchen to the seats out front. Nope. He hasn’t moved from the countertop, where fresh crumbs are accumulating. I try not to look at them. Or Nash. How is he always just there, wherever I am?

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Bored,” Nash says, his mouth full of cupcake. He swallows and looks at me. “Like the job? The Davidsons treating you okay?”

  “It’s good,” I say, drying cupcake plates.

  The stack of dirty plates is almost as endless as the silence that follows, so I reach for another rag and toss it to Nash.

  I wish I could screenshot the look on his face right now. He raises his eyebrows, like, seriously? I step to my left to make room for both of us at the sink. If Nash Kim has the audacity to come into my nearly perfect kitchen and crumb it all up—he can at least make himself useful. If his idea of a fun Saturday afternoon is loitering in a bakery kitchen and stealing cupcakes and stressing me out, he’s going to help me finish early.

  He takes the spot by my side at the sink.

  “I’ll wash. You can dry,” I say. “You do know how to dry a plate, yeah?”

  Kels’s snark comes out of Halle’s mouth so effortlessly it’s shocking—and that’s when I know he’s already messing with my head. Nash just rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

  In between passing plates and humming along to the Ed Sheeran song on the radio, I learn that Nash has a scar on his right palm. It begins at the midpoint between his thumb and pointer finger and runs down the center of the palm, following the curve of the lifeline crease. Every time I pass a plate to him, I steal a glimpse of that scar, fixated on a flaw I never knew, and never could’ve known, as Kels.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Nash’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Huh?”

  My eyes point to the scar. “Your hand.”

  “Oh.” Nash coughs. “Bike fail when I was seven. I hit a rock and flew right over the handlebars. Thought I was ready for the training-wheels-free life. Clearly, I was not. Stitches in the palm suck, by the way. Do not recommend.”

  I pass another plate to Nash. “That is tragically generic.”

  Nash laughs. “Oh, for sure. But it was still traumatizing! For my mom, at least. I don’t remember much of it.” He holds out his palm so I can see the full extent of the damage. “I don’t remember my hand ever not
looking like this.”

  If I were Kels, I’d trace his scar with my thumb.

  But if I were Kels, I’d never know there’s a scar to trace.

  What else don’t I know about Nash?

  It’s just a scar, I remind myself. Anyone can fall off their bike. You know Nash.

  He curls his fingers into a fist and returns to drying dishes and we revert to a more comfortable quiet.

  “Do you bake?” he asks.

  I blink and my heart skips a beat. “What?”

  Nash stacks the dry plates. “I am clearly the master of segues.”

  “And bicycles.”

  He clutches his hand to his heart. “Ouch. Too soon, Upstate.”

  I ignore his theatrics. “Sometimes,” I say. “But I like eating cupcakes more than baking them, I think.”

  Nash nods. “Dude, same! My friend and I argue about this, like, all the time. She bakes cupcakes that are art, cupcakes that could win Food Network competitions. I know it’s her brand, but sometimes I wonder why she—why people—put so much effort into a product that is temporary, you know? At the end of the day, cupcakes are meant to be eaten. But if you love them, you have to see these.”

  His phone displays One True Pastry’s Instagram page and I am dead.

  Nash scrolls through my most recent #CupcakeCoverReveals and shows me his favorites—zooming in to point out the details of my artwork. I chew on the inside of my cheek because Nash is so proud of One True Pastry, so proud of Kels.

  I’ve never heard anyone I’m not related to speak out loud about the work I do.

  Nash doesn’t just speak, he brags. Like, This girl is my friend, how lucky am I? Just like how Molly and Autumn talk about REX. It’s surreal but also wonderful. It makes everything about our online friendship feel valid.

  It also makes me feel like the biggest liar.

  “They’re okay,” I say, focusing on scouring one of the mixing bowls.

  Nash talking to Kels about Halle is one thing. I can’t listen to Nash talk about Kels. It’s too much.

  “I was just trying to—”

  I cut him off. “Nash. Stop. I have work to do, okay?”

  This mixing bowl is going to sparkle by the time I’m done with it.

  “You’re right.”

  “You don’t,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like you’re getting paid to be here. I can finish up.”

  I expect him to leave. Anyone else would. Not Nash. “We’re almost done. May as well finish what I started.” He tucks his phone in his back pocket and returns to his dish-drying duties.

  We finish in a silence that is as far away from comfortable as you can get.

  September 28

  Kels @OneTruePastry 2hr

  NEWS! I am so excited to announced that One True Pastry will be hosting the EXCLUSIVE cover reveal for READ BETWEEN THE LIES by @ArielGoldberg! Tuesday 10/1 @ 2 PM EST. Watch this space—I’m almost positive I outdid myself with this one

  [45 comments] [104 ] [552 ]

  |

  Ariel Goldberg @ArielGoldberg 55min

  AHH I’m so excited that @OneTruePastry is hosting the cover reveal for READ BETWEEN THE LIES. I’m so obsessed with this cover & her cupcakes. I can’t wait to see what Kels comes up with!

  [245 comments] [557 ] [2.2K ]

  |

  Nash Stevens @NashStevens_27 52min

  @ArielGoldberg it’s going to be EPIC @OneTruePastry is killing it

  EIGHT

  On the last Saturday of September, I am neglecting homework for Read Between the Lies.

  Ollie and I filmed the cover reveal on Thursday night at Maple Street Sweets, after hours. Since Gramps’s house is a no-cupcake zone, the process of baking and executing a cinematic cupcake cover was complicated. We draped a white tablecloth over one of the tables. Ollie stood on a chair and pointed the camera down, careful to make sure the table was the entire shot.

  I wore a long-sleeve black shirt and swapped my chipped blue nail polish for black. It took a few takes to get the lighting and cupcake placement right. Once we did, we got a few extra takes for good measure.

  Now I’m editing the footage in Premiere and it feels so right, so natural, after spending so much time with my parents in post, that I can’t believe I never thought to do this before.

  It looks exactly how I pictured it in my head and I can’t stop smiling. I baked chocolate cupcakes, since most of the cupcakes are black frosted to mimic the redacted lines on the cover. The splatters of red blood pop. The timing between placing the next cupcake is even, allowing me to manipulate the footage to make it as fast or slow as I want.

  It’s too perfect.

  My followers are going to freak out.

  While the final cut renders, I continue reading my very own, very not edible version of Read Between the Lies. I may or may not have screamed when I opened the mailbox and the ARC was waiting for me inside. It’s a book worth dropping everything for—which is exactly what I plan to do, once the video is all set. I’m already one hundred pages in and completely enthralled. I’m so picky when it comes to thrillers, mostly because I have a weird sixth sense and can always predict who the killer is fifty pages in. But with Ariel Goldberg, I’m still guessing.

  It’s such a nice break from the Alanna LaForest Twitter drama. Since the EW article, my Twitter following has grown exponentially, which is awesome timing with the cover reveal coming. But also not, as the level of trolling has increased along with it.

  Elsie Porter @ElsiesShelf 2hr

  How can @OneTruePastry straight up disappear at a time like this? Alanna NEEDS our support! Like, literally she just said she wants her book to be read by a wide audience? And now she’s being boycotted? Pile-on culture is TOXIC.

  |

  Jamie K. @jamiereadsya 2hr

  lololol that’s a real interesting interpretation. alanna’s statement implies that it’s not enough for her book to be read and loved by teens??? which is pretty hurtful?? as a teen?

  |

  Abby In Wonderland @abbyinwonderland 2hr

  So much for seeing FIREFLIES & YOU. Also … so much for @OneTruePastry being a teen advocate?!

  For the first time in the history of One True Pastry, I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t want to isolate my followers who are hurt by Alanna’s words.

  But every time I think about signing a Fireflies and You film boycott, I think of Grams.

  I know Alanna wrote it, but it’s Grams’s too. She was so excited for the movie. Even when her health was deteriorating and she was hospitalized more than she was home, she believed she’d be around long enough to attend the red carpet premiere. And—I can’t boycott it. I just can’t.

  At this point, my big hope is that Alanna comes to her senses and apologizes and this whole thing blows over. At least the cover reveal video is dropping in a few weeks—which will, hopefully, be enough get the Alanna drama out of my mentions.

  “Hal?”

  I look up from the book as the door swings open and Gramps comes in, Ollie trailing behind. He pulls out Aunt Liz’s desk chair and takes a seat. Ollie sits at the end of the bed and Scout jumps onto my lap. I don’t know how or when Aunt Liz’s room became the family meeting spot—sometime between the cupcake incident and Gramps and me being on speaking terms again—but at least I don’t have to move.

  “The Jacobsons invited us over for dinner tonight,” Gramps says.

  I put Read Between the Lies facedown on the bed so I don’t lose my page. Okay, Gramps. You have my attention.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It’s Rosh.” Ollie says this like duh, even though he knows as well as I do that we’ve never celebrated Rosh, at least in the proper way—never mind called it that.

  “Well, almost,” Gramps says. “It technically starts tomorrow night. But every year, the Jacobsons host a big dinner party the night before. A New Year’s Eve Eve party, I suppose, for everyone to celebrate, together.”

  “Why the day before?”
Ollie asks, his nose wrinkled in confusion.

  “Because,” Gramps explains, “tomorrow night, the Jacobsons will be at services. They keep the high holy days like Shabbat—no electricity, no technology.”

  Ollie and I nod, sort of understanding. Wow, we have so much to learn. Then I swallow because it’s Molly’s party, which means Nash is going to be there.

  “I have homework,” I say.

  He eyes my blood-spattered book. “Clearly, nothing urgent.”

  “We’re on vacation, basically,” Ollie says.

  He’s right. Rosh Hashanah is a two-day holiday and because of how it falls this year, we have Monday and Tuesday off.

  “We’re leaving at seven-fifteen. L’shanah tovah.”

  Scout follows Gramps out the door. Ollie makes a face at me before he leaves too.

  Goodbye relaxing evening reading Read Between the Lies.

  It’s not the dinner part I’m worried about, it’s the party. Food. Talking. Ollie will ditch me for his friends. I’ll be stuck attempting small talk with Le Crew but actually trying to find a place to disappear. Maybe I can hang by Gramps. Can that be an option? Yes.

  Ollie will be social and I’ll hang with the old people and everything will be fine.

  * * *

  Small group dynamics make me uncomfortable, but crowded spaces are my kryptonite.

  Everything about hanging out in Molly’s decked-out basement is too much, and I regret following Ollie down here instead of sticking to my original plan. There are too many voices, too many faces, too many bodies in one space. It’s so hot in here I instantly regret wearing a long-sleeve blouse. The music is so loud, I can’t think. Everything, everyone is staring at me. Except Nash. Nash is helping set up karaoke and it’s so weird because the thing I want to do most right now is text him. And for a moment, I hate that I’m a secret. I want to yell at him, Why can’t you see that it’s me and I need you?

  As expected, Ollie has ditched me for Sawyer’s sister Talia, his friend Trevor, and normal social interaction. He’s concentrating on an intense game of air hockey with Talia. A bunch of nameless faces surround my brother, rooting and cheering and clapping him on the back whenever he scores.