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Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
“Sometimes, I wonder what’s beyond the bayou. Sometimes, I believe that one day I’ll find out.” #ReadWithKels
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Kels @OneTruePastry 2hr
Thanks for another excellent #ReadWithKels!! We’ll be back next week for ch. 3-4. Same place, same time, same book <3
#ReadWithKels
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Olivia Brooke @livlaughlove333 2min
Rereading along with @OneTruePastry! CAN’T WAIT FOR FIREFLIES AND YOU. #ReadWithKels
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Deja Louis @dejavuwho 5min
Are you even a true F&Y fan if you’re planning on seeing the movie?! #ReadWithKels
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Jamie K. @jamiereadsya 11min
WHY ARE WE STILL HYPING THIS? #ReadWithKels
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Abby In Wonderland @abbyinwonderland 17min
I’m just staring at my screen like
#ReadWithKels
THIRTEEN
Turns out, functional Gramps is kind of a hard-ass.
November blends into December, and I am still grounded.
“You’re always on that phone, and you couldn’t answer one of my three calls?” Gramps had said to me when I got home.
“It’s called silent mode?” I tried to joke.
Gramps does not appreciate sass unless he’s the one giving it.
I was sentenced to two antisocial weeks, too shocked he was so upset to argue further. If this had happened when we first arrived, I don’t even think he would’ve noticed I was missing. I got too used to the freedom, to not expecting anyone to account for me.
There are still five days left until I’m free. Gramps didn’t confiscate my phone or laptop, though, thank God. Halle and Kels’s simultaneous absence would have been a ridiculous coincidence.
In some ways, the sentence has recalibrated me. Without the ability to spend my free time with Le Crew, I’m able to focus on the thing that matters most: One True Pastry.
I send my first-ever pitch rejection.
I also block my first troll.
My following ironically has plateaued, thanks to the Fireflies and You trailer drop. The film is back in the YA Twitter spotlight—and most of my movie tie-in content has gone live. Posts I scheduled months ago—an interview with the cast before production started, Twitter chats encouraging my followers to reread the book, a throwback post boosting my original, spoiler-free reviews. It has been extremely divisive with my followers.
I wish I could tell Twitter I’m not pro-Alanna—I’m pro-Grams.
But I can’t.
And OTP isn’t the only thing I’ve been neglecting.
I’ve never been so disconnected from Amy, Elle, and Samira. Now that I spend most of my weekends with Le Crew, it feels like I’m always catching up on their conversations. Elle’s novel is on submission, Samira’s submitting her art portfolio for a competitive summer program, and Amy is drowning in midterms. I know this. I do still read the messages when I can.
It just feels impossible to respond after five or seven or twelve subject changes.
Not to mention I don’t even know how to talk to them right now. They’re Nash’s friends too. What if I slip up and say something about Nash? I want to tell them so badly, but they’ll freak out. Ollie is on my case enough. Besides, they don’t know who I am either.
My friendship with Nash isn’t the only one at stake. Pretty much all of them are.
I need to find a better balance between Halle’s life and Kels’s.
It’s the Sunday after an uneventful Thanksgiving and I’m spending my morning working on my personal statement. The cursor blinks in an empty word document and I stare at the screen, totally stuck. How can passion be infused onto the page? This essay has to compensate for my below-average SAT score—but it can’t be a gushing blog post. This needs to be professional, but still show who I am.
All in six hundred fifty words or less.
I twirl Grams’s necklace between my fingers, unsure how to essay.
I text Nash.
question.
12:00 PM
Nash Kim
Oh! Hey. What’s up?
12:01 PM
I almost drop my phone when his answer comes through as Nash Kim. Crap. I can’t talk to Nash about my college essay! Obviously, it’s about One True Pastry. This is supposed to be a Kels-Nash conversation. I contemplate what to do, staring at the screen for so long the brightness fades.
Actually.
Maybe Nash can still help me.
What was your college essay about?
12:02 PM
It was about Nick. I wrote about why I started REX and the elusiveness of memory.
12:03 PM
Wow. That sounds really smart.
And kind of sad.
12:04 PM
I hope so. Isn’t that a college admissions reader’s dream?
12:05 PM
Valid.
12:06 PM
That’s helpful. Thank you!!
12:06 PM
I’m glad I texted the wrong Nash. It feels like we’ve been online talking about NYU since the beginning of our friendship. Him writing about REX. Me writing about OTP.
But of course, Nash’s essay is about more than a web comic.
Mine is about more than a blog.
Grams. Everything I know about publishing is because of Grams. She’s the reason I know I need to work in publishing; how I know I need to scream about books for a living. How many eight-year-olds sit on their grandmother’s lap at Thanksgiving and ask, Grams, how are books made?
Grams, do you know Junie B. Jones?
Grams, can I be an editor, just like you?
She told stories to me about the life of a book, a tale of Bella Book’s journey from inception to production to distribution, á la the Schoolhouse Rock “I’m Just a Bill” song. Yes, of course she knows Junie B. Jones. And if I want to be an editor, great—but there are so many aspects to publishing that I can explore, like publicity or marketing.
Tears splash against my keyboard.
Breathe.
I can’t write an essay about One True Pastry and not write about Grams. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to.
The words might not flow out of me today—but they will.
Decision made, I close my laptop to take a much-deserved break from my emotions. I stand to stretch my legs and reach for my phone on the nightstand, just as Gramps knocks. His knuckles rap against the door four times, evenly, so I know it’s him before the door swings open.
“Hal?”
I plaster a smile on my face and tell Gramps to come in.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
I’m instantly suspicious. Gramps has never, not once, asked me, How’s it going?
“Okay. I’m just working on blog stuff, you know. The usual.”
Gramps knows about One True Pastry because he did, in fact, threaten to take my laptop away and I freaked out. Take away my miniscule social life, I said. Take away my driving privileges, I said. You can even take away my phone if you really want to But I need my laptop. I typed in onetruepastry.com and showed him what it is, who I am. The website, the Twitter account, Kels.
I told him none of it would even exist without Grams.
This is why you’re always online? he asked.
I nodded.
It’s amazing, Hal. Seriously.
I retained my laptop privileges. Thank you, OTP.
“You’re on parole, kiddo,” Gramps says. “Honestly, this doesn’t even feel like a punishment anymore. You, Halle Levitt, are free.”
I’m frozen, unsure what to do or if I even want to be free. It’s like now that I’ve gone back behind the screen, I’m not ready to burst the bubble again.
“Free as in, get out,” Gramps clarifies.
I reach for the oatmeal cardigan draped over my desk chair. “Are you that sick of me?”
“Yes,” Gramps deadpans. “No, I jus
t have a house project I need to work on today. I kicked Ollie out too—he took Scout to the dog park with Talia.”
“Project?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gramps says.
“Thanks?”
Gramps nods. “You have thirty minutes to vacate the premises.”
He disappears down the hallway and I’m not sure what he’s working on, but I’m just glad he seems excited about something. Grams had to leave the house during Gramps’s project days too, so this feels like more movement in the right direction.
I’m free. What to do with this freedom? I should go to the library and continue working on my essay. Instead, I send a message to my group text with Le Crew.
I’M FREE
12:32 PM
Molly Jacobson
OMG FINALLY
12:33 PM
Autumn Williams
12:35 PM
Molly Jacobson
??
12:37 PM
So I spend my first hours of freedom dress shopping at the Middleton Mall.
Winter formal is two weeks away, and I don’t know how many times I have to tell Molly I’m not going before it sinks in. She’s had her dress for weeks, of course, but Autumn still needs one. I agree to tag along because I need to get out anyway, and for the first time in almost two weeks, I can.
“In and out,” Autumn says. “I need to pick up Marcy and Max at four.”
“Dogs have no concept of time, Autumn.”
“Marcy knows when I’m late.”
Autumn is the most popular dog walker in Middleton, with a client list that continues to grow. There is a winter chill in the wind—signaling that Autumn’s peak season is about to begin. At thirteen, she started the business when no place else would hire her because, well, child labor laws. She managed to charm most of the neighbors into paying her to walk their dogs with USC fliers and her perfect smile.
If Autumn is on a mission to be in and out, Molly’s mission is to take her sweet time. She scours H&M’s sales racks and pulls no less than half a dozen dresses for Autumn to try on in a variety of colors and styles. Autumn rolls her eyes but takes the stack of dresses into the nearest fitting room.
“You’re not wearing black,” Molly says to Autumn’s only pick, a trademark black A-line cut with lace sleeves.
“Why not?” Autumn asks.
“You always wear black!” Molly says.
“Is senior year really the time to go off-brand?” Autumn counters.
Molly holds out a fitted jade dress. “Just try this one.”
Autumn takes the dress. “That is going to be way too tight.”
“Just try it—and toss that one over for Halle to try on.”
“How come Halle gets to wear black?” Autumn asks.
“Halle isn’t going,” I say.
“Because Halle isn’t allergic to color—and oh my God, stop,” Molly says.
Autumn sighs and shuts the dressing room door behind her. Moments later, the black dress flies over the top of the door. Molly catches it and hands it to me with a pointed look that says, Don’t even argue. If trying on a stupid dress will placate Molly, fine. I’ll do it. It’s not like she can force me to go to the dance. Friday was the last day to buy tickets.
In the fitting room, I shimmy out of my jeans and T-shirt. Fitting room mirrors are the devil incarnate, so I avoid looking at myself too much. I thought I did a better job covering up the stress zit on my chin, but even a brief glance shows, lol no.
I slip the dress over my head and—I don’t hate it. The A-line skirt flatters my hips and the lace sleeves are totally my style. Give me a pair of red pumps and some lipstick to match, and I’d look pretty fierce.
I’d look like Kels.
“What do you think?” Molly asks.
I open the door.
“Oh my God! You look so good!”
“Wait, but that’s my dress,” Autumn says, opening her door. But then she looks at me. “Ugh, no it’s not. You do look good in that.”
Immediately, she turns to Molly. “And this, as predicted, is too tight.”
“Okay, agreed. Try the purple one next. That’s Halle’s dress, I do declare.”
You can have it, I mouth to Autumn.
“Hey!” Molly says. “No!”
The rest of the dressing room session goes pretty much like this: Molly dictating Autumn’s fashion choices and my life choices. Autumn settles on a dark purple knee-length dress. The skirt has a sheer black overlay with floral appliques. It’s a fair compromise and Autumn looks gorgeous in it.
Molly is still holding my lace-sleeves dress in her arms and trying to convince me that it’s destiny, that it was made for me to wear to the Middleton winter formal. We finally move on to shoes, but she keeps it up.
“Give me one good reason why you’re not going,” Molly says.
“Well, it’ll probably induce a panic attack, for one thing,” I say. “I don’t do crowds.”
“That’s a good reason, Moll,” Autumn says.
“Oh,” Molly says. “I don’t want that, obviously.”
She pauses to consider but I know she’s not done. I turn in to the size-eight section of the sale rack, putting distance between us.
“But … okay. I totally wasn’t supposed to tell you this, and I’ll deny it if you say I did, but now that we found the perfect dress and if you leave this H&M without it—well, you just need to know this. Nash wants to take you.”
“What?” Autumn asks.
“What?” I repeat, stunned.
“He told you that?” Autumn asks.
“He did,” Molly says. “Which is, like, such a breakthrough because, well—honestly, because you’re not Kels.”
My face is turning red.
I can feel it.
Do not betray me now, face.
I stay hidden in the next aisle of shoes.
“I swear he thinks he’s in love with her. Nash has never been on a date, and I know it’s because of her.”
Molly is so dramatic, I almost start laughing. I cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from bursting into a fit of hysteria. It’s as ridiculous as the time my phone blew up with ship names. Amy decided ours is Kash, which is so bad I let her have it. Love? That is such a loaded word. Nash really hopes to meet Kels at BookCon, sure. But Nash can’t be in love with Kels? Can he?
I believe one thousand percent you can be friends with someone you’ve never met.
But in love?
“Anyways,” Molly says, “he wants to take you and I think you should say yes. Please say yes.”
We meet face-to-face at the end of the size nines.
I cannot say yes.
“I don’t have a ticket,” I say.
“Please. I’m student council treasurer for a reason.”
I want to say yes.
“I don’t dance,” I say.
“You don’t have to!” Molly says.
She’s getting close and she knows it.
The idea of going to a dance with Nash, who wants to go to a dance with me, Halle, is breaking me. There are a million—a billion—reasons why I should say no. But the idea of going on a date with him? Once the possibility is out there it’s impossible not to think about.
I want to more than I even realized. Because the whole internet says Nash is into Kels, but that can’t be true if he wants to go with me. He wants me. In this moment, thinking about being at a dance with Nash, Kels has never felt further away.
Maybe this is what we need. Maybe if we do this, he’ll figure it out without me having to say anything.
“Fine,” I say, before I can change my mind. “Okay, I’ll go.”
Molly sucks in a breath. “Really?”
I nod.
She throws her arms around me.
Molly has an impossible way of always getting her way.
* * *
Ollie raises his eyebrows when I show him the dress.
“You’re going?”
&n
bsp; “Molly coerced me.”
He sits up on his bed, closing his laptop and sliding his headphones down so they’re around his neck.
“But how? I, your own flesh and blood, have yet to achieve such a feat.”
“Nash wants to take me.”
Ollie narrows his eyes at me. “Halle.”
I sit on the end of Ollie’s bed, legs crisscrossed. “I know. How do I do this?”
“You don’t?” Ollie says.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really supportive.”
“Sorry, I just—what the hell, Hal? Is this a date? Are you, like, trying to mess with him now?”
I stand. I’m already insecure enough about this whole ordeal. I don’t need shit from Ollie.
“Okay, bye.”
I leave Ollie to his Star Trek marathon and he slams the door behind me. I fully plan to collapse onto my mattress belly first, wondering what the hell I got myself into. Does Nash want to take me as, like, a date? Or as friends? The way Molly said it, well, it sounded like a date. But now I’m wondering if she meant as friends.
Either way, it’s complicated.
I kind of hate how much I want it to be a date.
Across the hall, my bedroom door is shut tight, which is weird because I never leave it closed, mostly because I love coming home to find Scout curled up in a ball on my bed. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door.
SURPRISE! is scrawled in black Sharpie.
I instantly tense because I don’t do surprises. But its Gramps’s handwriting, so I twist the doorknob, and push.
Disbelief smacks me in the face.
Grams’s bookcases line my lavender walls—and they’re filled with her books. Placed side by side, they take up an entire wall, just as I imagined they would in the floor-plan sketch of my dream room. Five matching mahogany bookcases with six shelves each.
I can barely breathe, but I step closer and see they’re organized in reverse alphabetical order like Grams would have them, because A should know what it feels like to be last sometimes. I take a tour of the shelves, my fingers brushing along the spines. Her library is truly a force—featuring classic and contemporary YA fiction, heart-pounding mysteries, and the most epic collection of foreign editions of Harry Potter. I haven’t read all these books, not even close.
Now, they’re mine.
I sink to the ground and cover my mouth with my hand to keep my sob inside because this was Gramps’s project. It must’ve taken him all day, and it must’ve been so hard—but he built her shelves for me.
What I Like About You Page 14
