What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  12:25 PM

  Amy Chen

  nash told us the gist. you’ve known him since september???? you’ve been DATING???

  12:27 PM

  Samira Lee

  You’ve seriously been in Connecticut this whole time? What else have you lied to us about?

  12:27 PM

  please just let me explain

  12:30 PM

  Elle Carter

  We video chat on Fridays. I’m inviting you because there is no logical way you can explain this via text.

  12:31 PM

  Amy Chen

  it’s going to be a tough enough sell via hangouts tbh!!!

  12:31 PM

  Samira Lee

  If you ghost us again, I’m done.

  12:32 PM

  i’ll be there

  12:33 PM

  “So this is how we meet.”

  Elle’s enunciation is exactly like how she texts, I swear. If we were texting right now, this would be capitalized. Her arms are crossed, her dark brown eyes looking directly into the camera, straight into mine. There’s no more filter between us. Her braids are tied in a topknot and she’s wearing a NaNoWriMo winner T-shirt from a few years ago.

  “Hey,” I say, delivering an awkward wave. It’s the most social interaction I’ve had all week.

  Amy pushes her thick black glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “This is so weird.”

  Samira says, “What do we even call you? Kels? Halle?”

  Her voice has a Southern accent I’m not expecting. It’s all so jarring—my friends, with faces. Not that I’m not looking at their faces every day. But those are pictures. Posed. Not faces with expressions with emotions. Not faces that scream, You owe us an explanation, so get talking.

  “Kels is a pseudonym. My real name is Halle Levitt. I’m not an army brat and I didn’t move to Georgia in September. I moved to Middleton to live with my grandfather. My parents are actually kind of famous? Well, in the documentary world. So I guess they’re not that famous …” Shit, I am definitely rambling. “But you probably knew my grandma. Miriam Levitt? Anyways, I didn’t even know Nash lived here, not until I bumped into him at the library my first day here. And I was so freaked, I didn’t tell him … and then it eventually got to the point where I couldn’t tell him—and I really messed up.”

  “You’ve been friends with Nash for years. You didn’t know where he lived?” Samira asks.

  I shrug. “People from Connecticut usually say, ‘I’m from Connecticut.’ Like, there is literally nothing distinguishing about Connecticut. Trust me.”

  Amy snorts. “Fair, I guess. But you were just … friends with him all year? While you were still texting him as Kels?”

  “That’s really messed up,” Elle says.

  “It didn’t feel that way at the time. Not at first. At first, it felt like I needed to protect Kels and Nash’s friendship, you know? I always move and leave, so I didn’t want anything to change for this one impermanent stay. I didn’t mean to fall for him.”

  I feel my cheeks heat with the admission.

  “What?” Elle asks.

  “Kels,” Amy says.

  “Halle,” Samira says.

  I tell them everything. The fake love triangle. Winter formal. The movie. REX.

  “But you knew he was in love with Kels, right?” Elle asks.

  I shake my head. How many times have I shook my head at my phone when we talked? For the first time, my gestures are visible. “Not until he told me.”

  “I’d say no one is that oblivious … but maybe you are?” Samira says.

  “Nash has literally always loved you,” Amy says.

  I cover my hands with my face and shake my head. “He was my best friend. I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not until I knew him.”

  Amy dips a carrot in hummus. “I wish you’d talked to us.”

  “We could’ve shut this shit down so fast,” Elle says.

  “I think that’s why I didn’t tell you. Seriously, I’m so sorry. For being distant. You’ve always been there for me—I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t care about our friendship. I just got in so deep … I didn’t know how to get out and even when I wanted to, I was sure you’d never forgive me. And I know you still might not. But I love you guys.”

  “We feel like we don’t even know you,” Samira says.

  “It’s kind of a lot of lying to process,” Elle says.

  “Process,” I say. “I’ll be here after you do. If you can.”

  “I want to,” Amy says quietly.

  For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I exhale.

  “It’s just … a lot,” Samira repeats.

  Elle looks past the computer screen and removes her earbuds. Nods and puts her earbuds back in. “I have to run,” she says. “My brain has exploded, but I’m glad we talked.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Well. It was weird to meet you, Halle/Kels,” Amy says.

  “Good weird?” I ask.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Amy says.

  The line disconnects and it feels like we have a long way to go. But if something good came out of this whole mess, it’s the smallest possibility of weekly video chats with Amy, Elle, and Samira. It felt good, being myself with them.

  I’m not sorry the truth is out, I’m only sorry how it came out.

  I’m not sorry I’m Kels.

  So I know what I have to do.

  April 11

  Halle (aka Kels) @OneTruePastry 19min

  HELLO, TWITTERVERSE. this is me (and scout!) #shelfiepic.Twitter.com/we3dkfl8 (1/4)

  |

  Halle (aka Kels) @OneTruePastry 17min

  my name is halle levitt. my grandmother was miriam levitt, former editor-in-chief of empire children’s, & I’m a book blogger/cupcake enthusiast. I thought the pseudonym would let me grow OTP independent from that legacy—instead, it made a mess of my IRL relationships. (2/4)

  |

  Halle (aka Kels) @OneTruePastry 13min

  I get that this is weird. I’ll be on hiatus until June to focus on studying for AP tests & finals. Scheduled posts will still go up! school is A LOT right now … but my DMs are open for Qs. And I’ll see you at BookCon! (3/4)

  |

  Halle (aka Kels) @OneTruePastry 11min

  If Halle is too weird, you can still call me Kels! That’s cool! (4/4)

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I haven’t baked a single cupcake in a month, not one batch.

  Every time I try to bake, I can’t. At work, I stay behind the register and out of the kitchen. At home, I screw up vanilla bean batter and throw it in the trash, bowl and all.

  Yesterday, Nash tweeted he’s going to NYU.

  Nash Stevens @Nash_Stevens27 18hr

  So thrilled to announce that I will be studying studio art @NYU!! Can’t wait to learn from the best and up my content game for everyone!

  [147 comments] [87] [2.2k ]

  Nash is going to NYU. He told his parents and they’re letting him go. I’m so happy for him. But I hate that I don’t know what happened and that I wasn’t there for him. I know how hard that conversation must’ve been. I hate that I want to reach out to him so bad but I can’t.

  We’re nothing. I have no right to ask.

  Online life is otherwise surprisingly fine. It seemed like such a big deal—deciding not to split myself anymore, to tell the internet I’m Halle. To take ownership of my identity—and my mistakes—before BookCon.

  In the end, no one really cared.

  Kels, my persona, is something I built up in my head the whole time. The content is the same, and besides a few trolls, everyone has just accepted it. As Ollie predicted. They’re over the Nash-Kels drama now that we’re both back to posting regularly and haven’t said anything else.

  The online world keeps turning, though, and buzz builds on Twitter re: all things BookCon. There are pre-con giveaways, raffles for tickets to exclusive events, and all the swag promotions. I tweet cupcake
promises I might not be able to keep. With each new tag, my heart flutters with a combination of excitement and anxiety.

  But the panel is called Bloggers IRL, right? I want to be honest, to be myself, at BookCon.

  Plus, last night the BookCon gods released the full schedule for panels, ARC drops, signings, everything—and wow, planning the weekend is more of a process than I ever imagined. I spend most of my study period mulling over the schedule, writing the priority events in a notebook, and fitting the puzzle pieces of this weekend together. I’m planning to live tweet the weekend as much as possible from the One True Pastry account while I’m there and write recap posts when it’s over, so I have to think about what will be most exciting for my followers, too.

  Nash sits two rows in front of me, and I watch him doing the same thing.

  It’s the first time hope flutters in my stomach in weeks, but as soon as I see a panel called Are Pictures Literature? On the Modern Consumption of Graphic Novels, moderated by best-selling graphic novelist Michael Yoon—I know why Nash is going to BookCon.

  It isn’t for me.

  Part of me can’t stop hoping he checks out my panel.

  Even if he doesn’t love me anymore, I want him to see the full picture of me just once.

  I’m trying to salvage too-liquid frosting with more powdered sugar when Ollie enters the kitchen and asks if we can talk.

  “Not about Nash,” I say.

  He opens his laptop and scowls at me. “Um, no. About me? And my life?”

  Seriously, how long am I going to be the worst sister on the planet? I can’t remember the last time I asked how he is, how he’s doing. I’ve been so in my Nash feelings that I never even asked him how baseball season is going or when he and Talia became a thing.

  I leave the frosting bowl on the counter and sit next to Ollie at the table.

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry. What’s up?” I ask.

  “I kind of did a thing.”

  He turns his laptop to face me and it’s opened to an email.

  Subject: Re: Junior Counselor Candidacy at Camp L’Tovah

  Eyebrows raised, I read.

  Hi Oliver,

  We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the junior counselor program at Camp L’Tovah. We were impressed by your application, and after we spoke last week it is evident that you are a perfect fit. Attached is all the necessary start paperwork, important dates, and camp handbook to read at your convenience. Please confirm that you are accepting the position by May 30th. Orientation begins June 15th.

  Welcome to Camp L’Tovah!

  Sincerely,

  Abraham Ben-Yehuda

  I reread the email three times before reality hits. Ollie Levitt. My brother, who can’t keep a kippah on his head if his life depended on it, is going to Jewish summer camp? Ollie barely knows the shema and he … is going to junior counselor a group of tiny Jewish kiddos? This is incredible.

  “How did you even—?”

  “Molly,” Ollie says.

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “I just … needed something to keep me here. The camp runs for six weeks and it’s right outside New Haven, so it’s kind of perfect. We’ll visit Mom and Dad in Israel for a few weeks like we promised, then I’ll bestow my wisdom on third through sixth graders for the rest of the summer while living with Gramps. It’ll be great, and I’ll get to stay. Do you think it will work?”

  “I don’t know. But it could help Mom see how serious you are,” I say.

  “Every time I bring it up, she shuts me down. I know she misses us. I miss them too. It’s not about that. It’s about staying in one place so I can take baseball seriously. I want to play in college, like Sawyer, you know?”

  “That makes sense. Mom and Dad will get it, I think. They let us stay here when I explained my blog stuff to them. They’re all about chasing dreams, you know?”

  Ollie nods. “I hope so.”

  “I’ll talk to Mom,” I say. “If you need backup.”

  Ollie closes his laptop. “I think you mean when I need backup. Thanks.”

  “Of course. How did you bamboozle Abraham Ben-Yehuda into hiring you?”

  “I, um, pretended to be a Yankees fan.”

  I gasp. “Ollie.”

  “I know. Don’t tell Gramps.”

  “We both know I’m going to tell Gramps.”

  I forgot how good it feels, laughing with my brother—laughing in general.

  “Whatever. I got assigned to sports and rec. So basically, I’m getting paid to teach kids how to throw a baseball. I’d do that for free, dude.”

  “Did you tell Talia?”

  “We broke up weeks ago.”

  What? Did I seriously not notice that my brother was also going through a breakup? Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen Talia around the house in … a few weeks.

  “You didn’t—”

  “With all the Kels stuff, I don’t know. It didn’t seem important.”

  I shake my head. “It’s so important.”

  “It’s no big deal, honestly. We’re better as friends.”

  “You’re okay?”

  He stands. “I’m awesome. I am a camp counselor. Well, assuming the parents let me. Still, I … need to ask Gramps if he has an extra kippah. Or five.”

  “I’ll be here with the bobby pins and backup support.”

  Ollie pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “Thanks, Hal.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been a mess. I’m sorry I made the mess. You were right. You told me so.”

  He pulls out his phone and opens an Instagram story. Presses record.

  “Let Halle Levitt state for the record that I, Ollie Levitt, am always right.”

  I return to my cupcake batter. Because it’s definitely true, but there’s still no way I’m letting Ollie get that sound bite on the record.

  * * *

  Gramps comes home from class a few hours later and I have to accept that cupcakes are hopeless.

  Attempt number one ends in half a bag of powdered sugar spilled on the countertops. Attempt number two, I use special dark chocolate cocoa for the batter and it is bitter times a million, so I dump the batter in the trash. Attempt number three, I forget how to fill a piping bag and lose half my batch of semi-decent frosting to the kitchen sink.

  This is not working.

  My phone buzzes on the powdered sugar counters with a new Nash tweet.

  Yes, I still have notifications turned on for him.

  It’s just an #amreading tweet but I like it anyway. I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s desperate. But Twitter gives me the ability to interact with Nash in a way that I can’t IRL. It’s like reverting back to before all this started. With Twitter, I can say, I still see you. With Twitter, I can say, I’m still here, even if he doesn’t respond.

  Nash knows this move. He did it himself, after all, when Kels tweeted about NYU.

  So I like his tweets, I read every review he posts on Outside the Lines, and my graphic novel TBR has become as long as my YA TBR.

  Forget the kissing and the falling and getting caught up in the fact that my life somehow became novel-perfect—I will never even think about kissing Nash again, about being anything more than his friend, if he’ll let me apologize. If it’s possible he’ll forgive me.

  Every wrong choice was supposed to be in the name of not losing our friendship.

  But that was never up to me.

  And now, because of me, it’s all up to him.

  My brain is a constant loop of cupcakes. BookCon. Nash. Cupcakes. BookCon. Nash. Cupcakes. BookCon. Nash. Cupcakes. BookCon—

  “Hal?”

  Hands wrap around my shoulders.

  I drop the battered spatula in the sink.

  “Halle.”

  I turn around and, well, Gramps looks legit freaked—kind of like the first time he caught me using Grams’s stuff to bake. But it’s been okay for a while, more than okay, so I don’t understand what is with the spooked face. I—<
br />
  “Sorry, I’m—”

  Gramps guides me to the table. “Sit.”

  I sit.

  “I want to talk to you—”

  “How was class?” I blurt out, because I want to talk is the scariest combination of words.

  “Um, that’s what I want to talk about.”

  I frown, because I wasn’t expecting this. “Okay.”

  “There is no class,” Gramps says.

  My eyebrows scrunch together because I am so confused.

  “I don’t have any classes this semester.” He scratches the back of his neck. “After Rosh Hashanah—well, I started going to a bereavement group in New Haven. I wasn’t doing well, I know you know that, and Mrs. Jacobson suggested it.” Gramps coughs. “I wanted to be okay—or at least, uh, functional. For you kids.”

  “Oh.” This is a lot to process.

  “I had decided you should have her books, but building the bookshelves? It was an exercise, well, from my therapist.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I wish I knew that.”

  Gramps sighs. “I didn’t know how to tell you. It felt weak. But it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I can talk about her. I can build bookshelves and eat cupcakes and read her favorite books—the memories aren’t so suffocating anymore. I needed help.”

  “That’s not weak.”

  He dips his finger into the frosting bowl on the table. “I know that. I guess what I’m wondering is—do you?”

  “Um, I’ve never thought about it.”

  It’s the truth—the thought of therapy has never crossed my mind, not once. I know crowded spaces and too-loud voices trigger panic attacks. I know that if death even crosses my mind in the dark when I’m trying to fall asleep, I’ll be tossing and turning for hours.

  I know my anxiety. I know Ollie can always calm me down.

  Except Ollie won’t always be there. I mean, it’s not like I can take him to NYU with me.

  I know my triggers, but do I really know how to deal with them on my own?

  I don’t know.

  “Well, you’re always welcome to come to a group session with me. Open invitation. If you want to. Whenever you’re ready—and if you’re not, that’s okay too. I know you’re going through a lot, and I don’t know how to help. I hate that. But this might. Help, I mean.”