What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “After eight,” Nash says.

  I blink. “Wait, really?”

  Time has no meaning in the kitchen, but I didn’t realize how zoned out I was in the name of One True Pastry. I was supposed to meet Nash for dinner two hours ago.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t know where time went.”

  “Are you okay?” he asks, waving off my apology.

  “Fun fact: I stress bake,” I say.

  Admitting this truth feels like my two worlds are colliding.

  “Clearly,” Nash says.

  I scoop the leftover frosting into Tupperware to bring home.

  “Seriously, though, are you? Okay?”

  “I bolted before the mourner’s kaddish.”

  “So. Not great,” Nash says.

  I shake my head. “Not great. I didn’t know what to do after except come here. We used to bake together and just—I feel so much closer to her here.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I really hate cemeteries.”

  “I’m not a big fan either.”

  Nash wraps his arms around me and for the first time all day, I can relax. It occurs to me that in a way, I wouldn’t have Nash without Grams. Everything leads back to her. Without her, I never would’ve learned the art of the perfect cupcake. I wouldn’t have a blog, it wouldn’t be cupcake-themed, and Kels really, truly, would not be real.

  I mean, Nash and I would’ve met eventually, here, and I’d only be Halle. But without Grams, I wouldn’t have known Nash, I wouldn’t have spent years in DMs and G-Chat becoming this boy’s best friend.

  Grams has guided me through every major moment in Kels’s existence—from starting the blog, to making sure I had the best baking equipment, to editing my posts and reviews until the words and tweets felt as natural as breathing.

  If she were here, I know what she’d say.

  You know what to do, Hal. You don’t need my notes anymore.

  But even if she were here, it’d be up to me to fix this mess.

  If I keep waiting for the right words, I’ll never speak.

  Nash wipes a tear off my cheek and I remember being right here months ago and thinking that I used to hate how he’s always just there. I don’t know why, because now it’s one of the best things about Nash—his uncanny ability to show up when I need him.

  “Cupcake?” I ask, offering the container to him.

  “Sure,” he says.

  He plucks one of the cupcakes from the container, takes a bite, and chews it so slowly oh my God. Each bite is a millennium. I watch him on the edge of my seat, or I guess on my tiptoes, because his opinion matters. Like him showing REX to me. If I can’t impress Nash, no way the cupcakes will measure up for my followers.

  He swallows. Shrugs. “Kind of dry, tbh.”

  What. I gape, because One True Pastry cupcakes are so not dry.

  He breaks into a huge smile. “Kidding! Wow, I got you.”

  I punch him in the arm. “I hate you.”

  “I solemnly swear that your cupcake is so moist. The moistest, dare I say.”

  Once again, I’m laughing and I can’t stop because Nash loved my cupcake and moist is the grossest word on the planet and he knows it. Because Nash always knows just what to say to make me feel better without even trying. Because Old Halle never would’ve offered Nash a cupcake and I feel so good that I did. Because I shared part of Kels with Nash as Halle and the world didn’t fall apart. In fact, it feels more whole than it has in a long time.

  Because I have an idea.

  I’m going to use three hundred cupcakes to tell Nash I’m me.

  OTP cupcakes announcement

  Ariel Goldberg @ArielGoldberg 1 hr

  EXCITING NEWS! We will have @OneTruePastry cupcakes at the READ BETWEEN THE LIES launch party at Central Square Books!! Thank you SO much, Kels! Can’t wait to taste!

  |

  Kels @OneTruePastry 2min

  SO EXCITED *runs away to bake*

  [Nash Stevens and 252 others liked a post from Ariel Goldberg]

  TWENTY-ONE

  Today the College gods will decide my future.

  I don’t even have a chance to process if any .edu emails are in my Halle inbox before I am inundated with text messages from Le Crew.

  Nash Kim

  Halle

  5:03 AM

  Nash Kim

  Wake up

  5:04 AM

  Nash Kim

  It’s college day

  5:07am

  Nash Kim

  Hellooooooo

  5:15 AM

  Nash Kim

  I’m dying.

  5:30 AM

  Molly Jacobson

  WE’RE BOTH DYING

  5:31 AM

  Sawyer Davidson

  You’re not dying.

  5:32 AM

  Molly Jacobson

  AUTUMN IS MIA TOO.

  5:33 AM

  Molly Jacobson

  WHY IS EVERYONE ASLEEP ON THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF THEIR LIVES

  5:40 AM

  This more or less continues until my alarm clock goes off at six-fifteen a.m. and I groggily text STOPPP in the group text. Sorry, College gods, I’m not waking up early, not even for you. I hit snooze twice, like always, and roll out of bed at six-forty. This gives me exactly twenty-five minutes to choose an outfit and apply the bare minimum of makeup before Ollie and I run out the door to make it to school on time.

  I choose high-waisted jeans and a beige off-the-shoulder sweater, then swipe mauve over my lips. The lipstick is a bit extra for a Wednesday at MHS, but it would be perfect for a Wednesday at NYU. Dress for the life you want, and all.

  It’s just another day, I remind myself.

  Still, I can’t help but check my email on the stairs, in the bathroom, at the kitchen table during breakfast. With every vibration in my palm that indicates a new text or email—my heart spikes. I definitely need to turn off notifications today. But then I double-check—even though I knew it wasn’t going to be there yet. According to Google, NYU sends their emails out in waves throughout the day, because they love to induce anxiety.

  As if my anxious brain isn’t already in overdrive.

  You’re just an amateur blogger.

  Your SAT scores are mediocre.

  Rejected.

  I toss my phone into my backpack, as if that will make a difference.

  * * *

  “Wait-listed.”

  Molly can’t even look at us when she says it. She’s too busy tearing her quesadilla into tiny, inedible pieces. Her eyes are wet but she doesn’t blink, won’t even shed a tear. Sawyer texted me in first period, but this is the first time I’ve seen Molly today, so it’s the first time I can believe it’s true.

  “It’s not a rejection,” Nash says.

  “It’s not over,” Autumn says.

  Molly shrugs. “I don’t know how to process this.”

  We don’t know what to say to that—so we don’t. Lunch passes in awkward silence, because what do you say to someone who’s sort of maybe lost their dream? Molly took five AP classes this year. Molly is valedictorian. Student council treasurer. President of USY. If Molly Jacobson isn’t enough for her dream—how am I possibly enough for mine?

  “No word yet?” Sawyer asks Autumn, Nash, and me.

  Sawyer’s future is on lock. Last week, he signed his life away to UConn baseball.

  “They’re Division I and I can keep working at the bakery. It’s kind of too perfect,” Sawyer said to me during a shift last weekend. He had multiple offers from schools all over the country. He’s absolutely Ollie’s hero—if there was ever any doubt otherwise.

  He’s also a hero for handling our stress like a champ, tbh.

  Molly blinks out of her trance. “I’m sorry. I’m so in my head right now! Please distract me. What is everyone else’s situation?”

  Autumn swallows a fry. “Well. I got into Loyola and Emerson. So … I’m going
to film school! USC is still very much to be determined.”

  “I’ve heard from UConn and Wesleyan,” Nash says.

  I retie my ponytail. “I—”

  Autumn’s phone vibrates, loud, against the table.

  Ten anxious eyeballs stare at Autumn’s phone. It’s the fifth time this has happened.

  “I mean.” Autumn swallows. “It’s probably another false alarm.”

  “Autumn,” Molly says, her voice level, “if you don’t check your email right this second and give us some good news, I’m going to have an existential crisis. Right here.”

  Autumn inhales a deep breath and opens her email. My eyes dart around the table, from Nash to Molly to Sawyer to Autumn. We’re all holding our breath. I’m positive. Autumn’s eyes are glued to her phone and for a moment she’s expressionless. Like a total statue. But then her eyes widen and her lips curve up and I almost burst into tears. Which, like, this isn’t even my news. Pull yourself together, Halle!

  “I got in,” Autumn says.

  Then she bursts into tears and it’s wild because I’ve never seen Autumn cry.

  “I’m sorry.” Autumn wipes her nose with her shirt sleeve. “I don’t know how to process this. I prepared myself for a no. I didn’t think—like, I guess I never thought I’d actually—God, Molly, I’m so sorry.”

  Molly stands up from her seat, walks around the table to Autumn, and wraps her arms around her. “Why are you apologizing? You freaking got into USC! My existential crisis has to wait.”

  We’re all freaking out and congratulating Autumn, who is absolutely glowing. The emotional whiplash is unreal.

  Once Molly lets go, Autumn turns and wraps her arms around me. “I literally couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you.”

  I shake my head. “Not true.”

  Autumn raises her eyebrows.

  “Okay! Maybe just the dialogue part.” I laugh.

  “Director, Autumn Williams,” Nash says. “Has a pretty sick ring to it.”

  “It really does,” Molly says.

  “Remember us when you’re famous,” Sawyer adds.

  The bell rings, interrupting the celebration and reminding Le Crew that we are, in fact, at school and we do, in fact, still have AP tests to prepare for. Nash and I have calculus next and I don’t even know how I’m going to process free-response questions. It’s enough of a struggle on a normal day.

  Le Crew splits off into every direction. Nash and I walk to calc and he asks—no, insists—that we check our email.

  “Please. I need to know. Please. Please. Please,” he begs.

  He doesn’t need to ask me twice.

  Your NYU Admissions Decision appears in bold at the top of my inbox.

  This is not a drill.

  “It’s here,” I say.

  “Mine too,” Nash says.

  We freeze in front of the English wing lockers. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating because in a matter of moments, I will know. And it’ll either be the best day of my life or I will be commiserating with Molly for the rest of the year. That’s probably what will happen, too, because of the SATs and I don’t have any fancy leadership titles, only tiny film credits and a blog and a spot at a convention that hasn’t even happened—

  “Halle,” Nash says. “On three.”

  One. Two. Three. I tap the email open, holding my breath.

  On behalf of the admissions committee, it is my honor and privilege to share with you that you have been admitted to the College of Arts and Sciences at New York University.

  Nash and I look up from our phones and lock eyes.

  He nods.

  I nod.

  Speechless, we both break into the stupidest smiles, I’m sure. In an instant, I forget that I am at school. I even forget about my strict no PDA rule and press my mouth against Nash’s because—I, Halle Levitt, got into NYU. And so did he.

  “Best day ever,” Nash says.

  “We’re going to NYU?”

  “We’re going to NYU! I mean, hopefully after I tell my parents. Wow. I didn’t think I’d actually have to tell my parents.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I say.

  “I know. I mean, I don’t know. But I think so. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline talking.” Nash laces his fingers through mine and exhales. “But first, to calculus?”

  “What’s calculus?”

  At NYU, I’ll never math again.

  I float through the rest of the day, rereading the email between classes to assure myself that it’s real, it’s not a fluke, I’m going to NYU. Ollie has an art elective fifth period, so I text him to meet me by the water fountain next to my physics class and we silently scream together for thirty whole seconds before we need to get back to class. We’ll celebrate tonight, Ollie promises.

  “Gramps is going to freak,” he says. “So will Mom and Dad.”

  NYU is reality. I’m going.

  And that means Kels is going. Do I announce it on Twitter? How will Nash feel? Knowing he, Halle, and Kels will all potentially be on the same campus for four years?

  Yeah, it’s getting confusing for me too. But it won’t be confusing for too much longer.

  I have a plan.

  * * *

  “It sounds like congratulations are in order,” Dad says.

  “Congratulations, Halle!” Mom cries into the phone. “We’re so proud of you!”

  Gramps, Ollie, and I pass the phone around the kitchen table and wow, I wish my parents were here for this moment. I’d be suffocating, wrapped in one of Mom’s tight hugs. Dad would ruffle my hair and I’d pretend to be annoyed he messed it up. Ollie would tell Mom to please stop crying, for the love of everything.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Seriously, Hal,” Dad says. “Grams would be blown away.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose because I’m so done with tears today.

  “I wish we were there,” Mom says. There are thousands of miles between us and still, she says exactly what I’m thinking. “I hate this. We missed too much. You’re a BookCon panelist! You have a boyfriend! You got into NYU! Being here, making this doc—it’s been amazing, don’t get me wrong. But part of me misses Charlotte.”

  Ollie sits across from me at the table, protein smoothie in hand. “You hated Charlotte.”

  “Okay,” Mom admits. “Maybe not Charlotte. But the idea of Charlotte. Us together in one place. Going to your baseball games. But now Halle’s heading off to college and it’s just going to be the three of us in L.A. through postproduction and—”

  Ollie cuts Mom off. “Mom, I want to stay here.”

  “What?” Mom says.

  “I want to stay with Gramps.”

  Gramps looks at Ollie with exclamation points of panic in his eyes. Ollie’s eyes widen and he shrugs, like, oops. Sometimes, Ollie has literally zero tact. Actually, not even zero. Make that negative tact. But to his credit, he sounds a thousand times more confident than he looks.

  It’s so silent on the other side, I think they might have hung up.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “We’re here,” Dad says. “Just—processing.”

  “No,” Mom says. “No way, Oliver.”

  “I kind of love it here. Did you know I made varsity baseball? That I’m the only sophomore on the team?”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. But—”

  “No,” Ollie says. He’s so worked up, face all red and blotchy like he’s going to explode. “Middleton is home now. I have friends, I have a girlfriend. I have Gramps. Please let me stay. Please.”

  “A girlfriend?” Dad asks.

  “Not the point,” I say, though I can’t help but be curious about when exactly Talia became Ollie’s girlfriend and why I didn’t know about this. I thought—well, I thought Ollie and I were back on track. Am I seriously still that checked out?

  “It’s okay, Mad,” Gramps says. “Ollie and I have talked this through, and I’d love to have him stay. It’s no trouble at all.”

&nb
sp; Silence.

  “I think we need a beat,” Dad says.

  “Let us think on it, okay?” Mom says. “It’s just … the idea of losing both of you? It’s a lot.”

  “It’s not losing me,” Ollie says.

  “We’ll discuss it, okay? We love you,” Dad says. “Congrats again, Hal.”

  “Love you too,” Ollie and I say in unison.

  The line disconnects.

  “Well.” I stare at the phone. “That went well.”

  Ollie covers his face with his hands. “I didn’t mean to co-opt your college news. Ugh.”

  “You’re an awkward Levitt at heart,” I say.

  “Not your best moment, Oliver,” Gramps admits.

  He’ll get to stay, I think. I hope.

  Ollie storms upstairs to his room, muttering ughhhhhh under his breath with every step.

  * * *

  I’m trying to start a new YA romcom, but I’m too distracted by the dreams-coming-true swoon.

  So I drop the book on my night table and text Nash, because it’s time to put the plan in motion. I almost want to blurt it out right now. But Nash is at a track meet in Hartford. And after everything, he cannot find out via text. This is one thing I have to do IRL.

  Hey

  4:37 PM

  Nash Kim

  Hi.

  4:39 PM

  Why didn’t I skip this meet?

  4:40 PM

  Because you never skip track stuff

  4:41 PM

  Track season is well under way, and it takes up a lot of Nash’s time after school. I hate how time-consuming it is as much as I hate running as a concept.

  Ugh. We should be celebrating!

  4:42 PM

  Totally!

  4:45 PM

  Maybe we can Saturday?

  4:46 PM

  Clearly, I am the queen of subtle segues.

  Saturday is Ariel Goldberg. Saturday is Boston and cupcakes and the day I’m going to tell Nash the truth. We will have a cute day in the city and we will stumble upon Central Square Books. He’ll recognize the cupcakes and look at me and a light bulb will go on and I won’t even have to tell him because he’ll just know. It’ll be hard and confusing and, okay, maybe it will be terrible at first. He’ll probably be mad. But I know what I’m going to say. I wrote it and rewrote it in my bullet journal.