In Kels land, I RSVP to the BookCon panel, pray that time slows down between now and the March announcement, and take a midterms hiatus. Am I avoiding Nash online? Absolutely. Am I still reading every message he sends me? Totally. Do I want to answer them? Of course.
I can’t.
Every time I think I’m ready to type words, I freeze. It’s the worst. I’ve never been so Halle online before. But the ability to maintain my persona for Nash has shattered, thanks to what is otherwise the best thing that has ever happened to me. Now that him finding out is inevitable, it’s impossible to be Kels.
So I’m not.
Kels is on hiatus. Halle has been taking midterms and polishing college applications.
There’s no time to tell Nash, even if I knew how to formulate the words. It makes matters worse that I can’t talk to my friends about this, that I can’t freak out about this mess I made. Samira’s reaction would be in cat memes. Elle would say, This is a shocking development, in a way that makes me know she’s rolling her eyes behind the screen. Amy would be no-chill flailing. But at this point, I’ve also managed to be absent from their conversations for so long that I don’t even know how to begin to insert myself back in.
So I don’t. For days. For weeks.
I’m on hiatus.
* * *
Before I know it, we’re lighting candles on the first night of Chanukah.
Real candles. Gramps doesn’t have an electric menorah like we’re used to. It’s late this year—the first night is just two days before Christmas Eve. Gramps’s menorah is the table centerpiece. Ollie does the honors, taking the lit shamash and lighting the first candle while Gramps mumbles the prayers under his breath. I just stand there and watch it burn, the one singular candle and the elevated shamash in the middle. The best part of Chanukah is the last night—it’s only when all nine candles are burning in unison that I can fully appreciate the story of the Maccabees and miracles.
“Check the applesauce?” Gramps asks, and I come out of my trance.
We’ve done the secular version of Chanukah my entire life. Exchanging gifts and eating boxed latkes from Trader Joe’s. Chanukah has never been a process or the kind of all-day prep that is associated with Thanksgiving. It has never been latkes from scratch and applesauce that simmers on the stovetop until the entire house smells like it.
In case it’s not obvious, Gramps loves Chanukah.
I set the silverware and fill glasses with water and we all settle around the burning menorah for our Chanukah dinner. Ollie, Gramps, and me—we’re a pretty great trio now, I think. Sure, it was a rocky start, but I can’t believe we’ve only been living with Gramps for four months, and how much has changed in those four months.
Ollie sits next to me, dramatically thwacking a tub of sour cream on the table. I spoon a generous amount of applesauce onto my latkes and give Ollie major side eye. I don’t know why latke toppings are so controversial. I just know that applesauce is the right choice, the only choice.
Ollie licks the sour cream spoon and I make gagging noises. We are the epitome of maturity.
I send Mom and Dad a Happy Chanukah message, along with a photo of my dinner plate and #TeamApplesauce. Ollie is the only #TeamSourCream mutant in the family.
Moments later, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.
Mom
The superior topping!
6:14 PM
Ollie
#TeamSourCream4Life
6:16 PM
Dad
6:17 PM
Ollie looks up from his latkes. “Why are they even still awake?”
“Probably reviewing footage,” I say.
It’s almost one-thirty in Israel, but the better a project is going, the later my parents work into the night. At this point, Dad’s probably trying to wrap up and go to bed. But Mom’s glued to the raw footage. Every time Dad goes to press pause, Mom blocks the keyboard with her arms and says, Just five more minutes.
It’s the filmmaker equivalent of Just one more chapter.
Gramps joins us at the table, reaching for the applesauce because he’s on the right team. “It’d be nice to not have the phones at the table tonight.”
“The parents say Happy Chanukah,” Ollie says.
“Happy Chanukah. Go to sleep,” Gramps says. “Tell them that’s from me—and then put your phone away! It’s present time.”
Gramps is very serious about the Chanukah table being a No Phone Zone while we exchange gifts. Instead of one present every night, we decided just one gift each on the first night would be enough.
My present is for both Gramps and Ollie, but it’s kind of the best.
I hand Ollie the envelope. His eyes bulge out of their sockets when he opens the card and boom, I am the best older sister on this planet. Success.
“How?” he asks, mouth open in awe.
“I’m the best,” I say.
“Obviously! Oh my God …” Ollie’s face scrunches. “There are only two tickets.”
“It’s a bro date,” I say.
“It’s too much,” Gramps says, eyes wide, but he’s smiling and that’s how I know I’ve nailed it.
“Clear your schedule for April sixth, Gramps. We’re going to the Red Sox home opener!” Ollie throws his arms around me. For a split second, I forget that lately he’s annoyed at me ninety percent of the time. I forget that I haven’t even told him about the panel yet. With this gift, I am the best, coolest sister again—if only for one night. I’m a pretty awesome granddaughter, too, if I do say so myself.
The small fortune was worth it just for the look on their faces.
Gramps gives Ollie his old baseball glove, but his gift for me is hand-wrapped—not in a bag—and suspiciously book-shaped. It’s … kind of disappointing. I mean, I know I am books. It is my brand. I guess I thought maybe Gramps would branch out into other realms of my interests. I contain multitudes. I rip the menorah wrapping paper, wondering which book on my TBR will be inside.
I’m not expecting a book I’ve already read.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. All proper and British, like Grams promised. Grams, who always said no true Harry Potter collection was complete without the philosopher’s stone. When she came back from the London Bookfair with Cadbury chocolate and a Harry and Meghan royal wedding mug, I just thought she forgot.
“Oh,” I say. I have the biggest lump in my throat. “Gramps—”
“It’s from us,” Gramps says. His voice cracks on us. “From our London trip, before—well, you know. It was supposed to be your birthday present. I found it when I put up your shelves. You should open it.”
There’s a handwritten note on the first page. Gram’s handwriting.
Happy birthday, Hal! Your collection is now complete. We love you. —Grams & Gramps
It’s so normal, so Grams. Like she had no idea this would be the last gift she’d ever give me. But just seeing her writing again is the real gift. I throw my arms around Gramps before I have the chance to overthink it.
I hold the book close to my heart and it hits me all at once—this Middle-of-Nowhere house is home. I can’t even imagine saying goodbye.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his scratchy grandpa sweater. “It’s the best.”
“Pretty sure these”—Ollie holds up the Red Sox tickets—“are better.”
We laugh and I’m grateful he’s always here to lighten the mood, even if he doesn’t need to. Gramps has been doing better. I’ve been doing better. We can miss her without spiraling into sadness. It’s Chanukah. We eat tons of latkes and tell stories and are comfortable sitting at the kitchen table for hours. Comfortable in our togetherness.
Before I know it, Ollie eats the last latke, his potato-to-sour-cream ratio a new level of disgusting, and the Chanukah festivities come to an end. Gramps turns the TV on, but the only choices are Christmas specials, so he turns it off and we start to clean up.
“Play that Chance guy,” Gramps says to Ollie and I die.
Near the end of dish duties, long after Gramps has retired to his room for the night and in the middle of yet another Chance the Rapper chorus, the doorbell rings. At first, I think it’s in the music, but then Scout jumps off her spot on the couch and runs to the door, so I know I’m not imagining it. The bell rings again. And again. And again.
“Answer the door, Hal,” Ollie says, elbows currently deep in dirty dishwater. “Please make it stop.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Nash Kim
Open the door, Upstate
9:01 PM
I stare at the text, processing.
Nash is here? But we’re still stewing in our awkward. I can’t answer the door. I don’t know how to be around him. I don’t know how to think around him. Especially now that he’s been texting Kels not just check-ins but actual worries about me, asking if I’m mad at him—for going to the dance with me? Almost as if I’m—Kels—is jealous? And I hate that. I hate that he thinks I’m mad at him about myself. I hate that this has all spiraled so far.
Mostly, I hate that he wants me—Kels—to be jealous.
The doorbell keeps ringing.
“Hal!” Gramps yells from upstairs. “Nash’s car is in the driveway.”
“Ollie’s getting it!” I yell up to Gramps.
“No, I’m not,” Ollie says, drying his hands with a paper towel.
“Can you tell him I’m not home?” I ask.
Ollie shakes his head. “It’s Chanukah, Hal. Absolutely not.”
I inhale a nervous breath. “Okay. I’ll get it. Can you, like, stay out of sight?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his hand to his heart.
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least be stealth about it.”
“You got it,” Ollie says.
I exit the kitchen and walk through the living room to the front door. I reread the text five times before I’m brave enough to open it.
“Hi,” Nash says, holding out a small gift bag. “Happy Chanukah.”
“Hey,” I say.
I don’t know what else to say, so I take the bag and hold the door open for Nash to come inside. Less because I want him to, and more because it’s too cold outside to join him. Nash follows me into the living room, and we sit in on the couch. Neither one of us knows what to say.
“Are you going to open it?” he asks.
“Oh. Right.”
I remove the tissue paper to uncover a wrapped box sitting at the bottom of the bag.
“You are not that guy,” I say.
“Oh, I am totally that guy.”
Inside the box is, oh wow—an embroidery hoop. I live for this crafty stuff. Grams tried to teach me embroidery when I was younger, but she just ended up finishing all of my hoops for me. In the center of this hoop—it’s a Nash original drawing. There’s no mistaking it. It’s a girl with long hair, her face hidden by the book she is reading. The muslin fabric is tie-dyed purple around the Book Girl, only she is not colored in.
It’s beautiful.
“I saw that you had a few when we were painting your room. I drew it—and sent the sketch to one of my blog friends who has an Etsy. I know things have been weird since, well—”
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
Nash relaxes. “Really? Cool.”
“Really,” I say.
It’s such a small detail in my life, such a Grams detail. I can’t believe he noticed. I can’t believe he drew something for me. It’s another complication, another check in the Nash is wonderful box and an X in the Halle is trash one.
I have no clue what this means.
“Can we talk?” Nash asks. “I’m really sorry—”
I cut Nash off. “I don’t want to be awkward anymore.”
Kels is on hiatus, while I am processing the reality that IRL, Nash and me are temporary. That’s the truth, isn’t it? I’m frozen in type because there is no way to spin this story where Nash won’t see me as a huge liar. If I can’t talk to him as Kels and things are going to blow up anyway, I think I’d rather enjoy these next few months being not awkward with Nash, as Halle, before we go down in flames.
“Me either,” Nash says, relieved.
“Let’s stop being awkward,” I say.
“Yes. Okay. Good plan,” Nash says.
We shake on it. To not being awkward anymore. I mean, awkward is an inherent part of the Halle genome. I will never be Not Awkward—only incremental amounts of Less Awkward. And before I went off in Book Land, romanticizing sunrises and creating A Thing out of nothing, I was at my Least Awkward around Nash.
Even if it’s temporary, I want to get back to that.
Since we’re now officially Not Awkward, I pop open a bag of Smartfood and we catch up. Scout is curled up in ball on the couch cushion between us.
“Have you sent in your applications yet?” he asks, passing me the bag of popcorn.
Scout has no chill around snack food. As soon as the bag crinkles she’s up and sniffing, trying to convince us to share. Nash passes the bag to me and scoops up Scout, so she’s sitting in his lap. He’s scratching her ears and for a moment, I swear she forgets about the popcorn.
Scout on Nash’s lap might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
I shake my head no. “Still tweaking my supplemental essays. Did you?”
Nash nods. “Yesterday.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure what to do with myself. You?”
I scoop a handful of popcorn and nod. “My application is ready to go. I know it is. But every time I go to press send, I think I should reread my essay one more time, or make sure I filled out all the forms correctly.”
“How many schools are you applying to?”
I shrug. As much as I don’t like the idea of applying to other schools, I know I need options. Since the first time Grams took me to New York, I’ve only pictured myself there, so I don’t have a proper backup plan.
“I’ll panic apply to twelve other schools, I’m sure. At least,” I say.
Scout jumps off Nash’s lap and runs toward the kitchen, toward the actual possible chance of treats. We’ve been stone cold with our Smartfood, and she’s totally over us.
“I only applied to four. Should I be panic applying?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Not a recommended strategy.”
“I feel like I need to be doing something.” Nash drums his fingers against his thigh. “It’s, like, as soon as I knew I wanted to study studio art at NYU, everything snapped into focus, right? I studied harder, started freelance designing websites, and took REX more seriously. It’s always been this thing to work toward. Now I’ve applied and all I can do … is wait? It feels wrong.”
“I mean, you could convince your parents to let you go.”
Nash gives me a look. “I’ll tell them if I get in,” Nash says. “I don’t need to deal with their Emotions and the pile-on of guilt if it’s a nonissue.”
“That’s fair,” I say. I want to throw my arms around him in a supportive hug. Instead, I throw popcorn at him. Because that’s not awkward.
It’s usually Kels talking about NYU in hypothetical future speak. Talking with Nash about NYU as Halle? It feels more real. The possibility of us getting in. But also? The possibility of us not. Maybe it won’t happen for me. Maybe I’ll be screwed over by standardized test scores. Maybe Nash won’t be allowed to go. But there is a scenario where we’re both there. Just now there’s no scenario where we are both there and actually friends.
But we’re not there yet. We’re in Gramps’s house, throwing popcorn at each other because we’re trying to be not awkward. It’s not easy like it was, but it’s so much better than the way things have been these past few weeks.
We talk until he has to be home for curfew, then I walk him to the door.
“Thanks for the hoop,” I say. “It’s seriously great.”
The tips of his ears flash pink. “I’m really glad you like it.
”
We stand in the doorway and stare at each other.
“So yeah,” I say.
“So yeah,” he says.
I put my hand on the doorknob and twist it open. Cold, crisp air whips into the entranceway, the kind of cold that comes just before a storm. I’m coatless so I shiver, but I step onto the porch and close the door behind us.
“See you next year?” Nash asks.
“I suppose so,” I say.
“Happy Chanukah, Halle,” he says, walking backward down Gramps’s walkway, through the light snow that accumulated the night before. He unlocks his car and opens the driver’s door. “We’re good, right?”
I nod. “Welcome to the friend zone.”
Nash’s blush is so fierce, I have to laugh.
Kels’s DMs, winter break
Amy, Elle, and Samira
Mon, Dec 30, 7:00 PM
Elle Carter
I don’t expect you to answer this, but what the hell is going on? I know you’ve been busy and I’m trying not to take it personal, but you also cut NASH out and now I’m even more confused.
1:37 PM
Amy Chen
we’ve come to the conclusion that you’re only our friend when nothing is going on with you IRL. and kels? that’s not friendship. it’s just not.
1:39 PM
Samira Lee
I’m mostly confused.
1:41 PM
Elle Carter
We’ve been talking and decided we’re starting a separate Group chat. So it’s gonna be quiet here now. Sorry, but you can’t just see our conversations and not participate in them
1:43 PM
Samira Lee
Yeah, that’s weird.
1:45 PM
Amy Chen
bye
1:48 PM
Nash
Tues, Dec 31, 11:01 AM
So. 3 weeks. Have I been officially ghosted? Elle says you’ve been weird for MONTHS. But … we haven’t been weird. I don’t think. I honestly don’t know anything right now. What the hell?
Thurs, Jan 2, 2:13 PM
I hope everything’s okay. I really wish you would’ve just talked to me if it wasn’t. It sounds so stupid now—but I thought we had something real. I guess we don’t.
What I Like About You Page 17
