What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  I double back to the Empire Publications booth, since it’s in the center of everything. On one side of me, a large group of hopeful teens and aggressive parents are battling for a box of ARCs. On the other side, people are receiving exclusive tote bags.

  It’s chaos.

  I am surrounded by chaos.

  Breathe.

  “… I can’t believe he drew a panel for you!”

  “… you better save that for when he’s famous …”

  I turn toward a group of tweens squealing at a piece of folded- up notebook paper. The girl holding the paper has long red hair and is in a NIMONA T-shirt. The other two are taller, both in graphic tees featuring their favorite comic book characters.

  Red holds the piece of paper to her chest and sighs. “He’s so cool.”

  “Chill, Lana. He’s just a blogger.”

  Lana’s face turns as red as her hair. “Shut up and be jealous.”

  “Hey,” I say, without quite thinking about it too hard. I don’t insert myself into other people’s conversations. But when I see the sketch, I see the swirl signature.

  It’s a Nash original.

  “Can you tell me where you met him?”

  The tweens eye me suspiciously.

  “I’m his friend.”

  Lana crosses her arms. “Sure.”

  If he just did this—Nash could literally be right here.

  I need these girls to talk.

  “Wait.” Lana’s eyes narrow.

  She nudges the blonde girl and they start whispering to each other. Blonde girl pulls out her phone and opens Twitter. She shows the screen to Lana and their eyes widen.

  “Kels?”

  I smile. Yes. “Hi.”

  “OTP totally got me through seventh grade,” Lana says and I die because—well, that matters. Lana points in the general direction Nash went after they’d met. I thank her profusely, for reading, for helping, for all the things. She asks for a selfie and if I can sign one of her bookmarks.

  I am somehow a star. It’s so weird. But amazing.

  Lana sends me to the back end of the Empire booth, where I see staffers lining people up for the next signing. The queue is long, wrapping around the corner and winding back toward the autographing area where Michael Yoon is. The graphic novelist that Nash came here to see.

  Oh my God, Nash is totally in this line. My palms turn slick and all the papers fall out of my hands. Cursing under my breath, I bend over and collect my stuff, shoving all loose papers into one of one my five tote bags.

  No, I do not need five tote bags—that’s not the point.

  I stand straight and wipe away the sweat that has accumulated on the back of my neck. Re-tuck my on-brand cupcake-patterned T-shirt into my high-waisted jeans. Smooth the bumps out of my ponytail. Check my lipstick.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  I search the sprawling line, but it isn’t simply one line. There are lines everywhere. It’s kind of a mess and if he’s here—I can’t even begin to track him down. Maybe this shouldn’t be a surprise. There are too many people, too much noise. I had no clue there’d be so much. Or that the Javits would be a giant maze filled with passive-aggressive—and straight-up aggressive—YA fandom. As I’m getting pushed out of the way by a ten-year-old, or being chastised for the cutting I didn’t do by a mother, I think Can’t we all just get along? Isn’t our mutual love of all bookish things civilizing?

  I check my phone and it’s almost time for me to meet up with my fellow Bloggers IRL panel members. I don’t have the brainpower—or time—to keep looking for Nash.

  Maybe I should just text him. Kels would.

  Hey, Nash. I’m here.

  Hey, Nash. Are you in the Michael Yoon line?

  Hey, Nash. Meet me at x location at y time. Please.

  I type and retype every variation of I’m here before settling on:

  well. we’re both at BookCon. it’s pretty much nothing like how I’d imagined it. but my panel is in E110 at 2. is it stupid to hope you’ll show up? probably, but I’ll save you a cupcake anyway.

  I really hope you will.

  1:23pm

  I press send before I can change my mind, and retreat downstairs to the designated panel meeting point—relishing these final moments where I am just an invisible teen who loves YA, just me.

  * * *

  I am so not qualified to be on this panel—what were the BookCon gods thinking?

  I’m seated between Celeste Pham and Lilah Clark and I have forgotten how to speak. I mean, my logic brain has known since BookCon announced panelists that they’d be here. But somehow the fact that I would be here, with them, sitting next to them, did not compute.

  Celeste hosts Books on Tape—the number one bookish podcast on the internet. Lilah is a booktuber with over a quarter of a million subscribers. The other four panelists are equally daunting—Annaliese is fifteen, agented, and a total star on Book Twitter. Pete advocates for diversity in middle grade. Sarah runs the best monthly #bookstagram challenges. And Tara rose to Book Twitter fame with poetry—every book review she writes is in iambic pentameter.

  Each panelist that I am sitting alongside makes One True Pastry look meager. I am totally starstruck.

  Stella McQueen, an editor at Bustle, is moderating. In the moments before the attendees enter the conference room, she introduces herself, and reminds us that of course we’ll have a rapid-fire round and Q&A at the end.

  Energy radiates from Celeste and Lilah.

  “Is it Halle or Kels?” Celeste asks.

  “Halle,” I say. “I’m Halle.”

  “One of those cupcakes better be for me,” Lilah says.

  Pete reaches across Lilah and takes one off my plate. I bite my tongue and let him do it, even though the platter I’ve designed is now asymmetrical—a perfect twenty-four become twenty-three. Prime numbers make me twitchy.

  Annaliese leans across Celeste. “Red velvet?”

  And that is how the Blogger IRL panelists come to savor a One True Pastry cupcake in the moments before we begin. I pass them out, tongue-tied, but it’s okay because I realize I don’t have to speak or explain or draw any more attention to myself. My cupcakes speak for me.

  Pete licks chocolate frosting off his fingers. “These are great, Cupcake Queen. Color me impressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  I still can barely process that they know who I am.

  Sitting between two bookish icons? I, Halle Levitt, have peaked.

  I will not squeal, though—that cannot happen. Today, I am a professional. A mutual. Not a fangirl. I can be a fangirl tonight, on Twitter, when I retweet the professional panel photos and post selfies of my own.

  I glance at my phone and it is ten minutes until start time. Right on cue, the doors to the conference room open and attendees flood in. I count them by twos as they come in and my heart spikes to new heights every ten people.

  Two. Four. Six. Eight. SO MANY PEOPLE.

  Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. AHHH.

  None. Of these. People. Are. Nash.

  Focusing on the door is driving me mad, so I shift my eyes down to the notecards in my sweaty palms—so sweaty that ink has smudged and transferred onto my skin. Shit. I try to decipher the more illegible notes, try to remember what I wanted to say. I can’t remember and oh my God, I am going to blank out. Right here. Onstage. Okay, it’s not a stage. It’s like an elevated platform. But still. What is my name? What does OTP even stand for? I don’t know anything. I don’t—

  Celeste swipes the cards out of my hand, crumples them in a ball, and drops them on the floor.

  “I get it,” she whispers. “I almost passed out before my first panel from the nerves. But you’ll sound rehearsed. Notecards mess with your brand authenticity.”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Um. Okay.”

  “You be you,” she says. “Trust me, that’s why everyone is here.”

  “Not the cupcakes?” I ask.

  She sm
iles, surprised. “Okay, mostly the cupcakes.”

  Microphone feedback echoes through the speakers. Stella stands and everyone claps and I’ve been to enough panels in my life to know that this is how it begins. It is happening, the moment that defined my senior year, the hour I’ve been counting down to since an email landed in my inbox six months ago. This day has been so hyped in my brain—I don’t know how to process the fact that it is happening, actually.

  “Welcome to the first Bloggers IRL panel! This year, BookCon invited six of the most innovative book bloggers to—”

  My phone lights up on my thigh. A notification. From Nash.

  It takes everything in me to flip my phone so it’s facedown. He’s not here. So I can’t be distracted by him. Not now.

  It’s panel time.

  Each blogger introduces themselves, starting with Tara because she’s seated next to Stella. I’m fourth to go, and I stumble through my introduction, in which I try to sound goofy and whimsical. I think I succeed, but blank out immediately after, so it’s impossible to tell.

  Stella asks her questions and I answer when it’s my turn. I cannot wipe the stupid smile off my face as I am thrown questions about blogging and cupcakes and being a teen voice in YA and even Fireflies and You and handling controversy on social media. Stella smiles at my answers, people laugh at my jokes, and I am killing it.

  The first few questions, I ask myself, What would Kels say?

  But honestly? I don’t have to try so hard.

  I am the Kels that everyone expects me to be, and she doesn’t feel like a persona anymore. I hope Nash is here to see that. I hope he sees me. The girl who will forever avoid The Lord of the Rings fandom, who will talk books with him anytime, who will bake the most extra cupcakes because they may be for eating, but they’re also for stress relief and brand building. The girl who is good at bowling but bad at finding the right words.

  The girl who loves him.

  I wasted an entire school year justifying the differences between my digital friendship with Nash and my IRL friendship—but were they ever that different? Really?

  I don’t think so.

  I hope Nash doesn’t think so either.

  #BookCon

  BookCon @BookCon 2hr

  AFTERNOON REMINDER! Follow #BookCon all day to stay up-to-date on all events and win swag!

  |

  Lana @Lana_and_Lola 15min

  HI EVERYONE @OneTruePastry IS THE ACTUAL SWEETEST, JUST FYI #BookCon

  |

  Lana @Lana_and_Lola 13min

  ALSO, @Nash_Stevens27 WILL DRAW FOR YOU #BookCon

  |

  Lana @Lana_and_Lola 10min

  And … I think @Nash_Stevens27 & @OneTruePastry are okay? I MEAN, HE’S AT HER PANEL RN SO?!?! #BookCon

  [47 comments] [125 ] [532 ]

  |

  Elle Carter @ellewriteswords 42s

  WHAT #BookCon

  |

  Samira Lee @s_lee244 37s

  #OTP #BookCon

  |

  Amy Chen @AmysBookshelf 25s

  PLZ LET THIS BE TRUE #BookCon

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I have one final question for Kels before we start taking audience questions.”

  Stella bats her eyelashes at me—which means whatever comes next will slay me.

  “In this community, there’s a lot of discussion of maintaining a brand identity and authenticity in these online communications. We all know you and love you as Kels—so I think a lot of people are wondering, who is Halle Levitt, and why share your identity now?”

  Silence reverberates throughout the conference room.

  Before the panel, Stella assured me that she’d avoid any questions regarding the Halle/Kels situation. I should’ve known she was full of shit. I guess in a way I kind of did, as I had an answer prepared on my crumpled-up notecards just in case. But Celeste was right: I don’t need them.

  “The way I look at it, Kels is my pen name. I don’t regret that—I never have. Lots of people create under pen names. Blogging as Kels gave me a platform and a community that never would’ve existed, I don’t think, if I’d created my blog as Halle Levitt, because it would’ve tied me to my grandmother. Nobody in the universe was a bigger Miriam Levitt fan than me. I worshipped my Grams. But I needed to know if people thought my content was good. I’d never know, not for sure, if I started my blog as Halle. Also, while the internet has given me so much, it can be a cruel place. I wanted to shield myself from that.”

  I swear the entire audience hears my heart beating through the microphone.

  I look up at them and pause because leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed, is Nash. Nash is here.

  Breathe.

  “For the record, I love being Kels from One True Pastry. I will still post all the cupcake aesthetics on Instagram and write all the YA reviews. The only thing I regret, if I’m being totally honest, is letting One True Pastry overtake my life. Nash, I am so sorry.”

  Stella McQueen’s jaw drops to the floor.

  My fellow panelists’ jaws follow suit.

  If I’m speaking in clichés, it’s because I just became one.

  Nash stares at me, his eyes wide.

  Then he bolts toward the back door. The exit.

  Stella blinks. “On that note, I believe it’s time for audience questions!”

  Microphones are set up in both aisles, and those who want to ask questions stand and move toward the microphone closest to them. I look at the clock—in the fifteen minutes between now and the panel’s official conclusion, Nash could be anywhere. He will be gone—the magic of BookCon will fade, and he will without a doubt never forgive me. Especially after the tweets that are sure to surface re: my very public apology.

  I should go.

  “I have a question for Kels and Annaliese.”

  My eyes shift away from the exit, back to the Q&A. A girl stands at the microphone, wearing an #AMWRITING T-shirt. “Hi. My name is Mel and I’m a teen writer. Both of your brands rely heavily on being teen voices. So I’m curious—what’s the plan when you’re, you know, not teenagers anymore?”

  I laugh. “I ask myself that question every day.”

  “You should,” Annaliese says. “It’s your problem before it’s mine.”

  The audience laughs and I’m grateful for a question that pivots away from Nash. “I guess the plan is to stay on the path to becoming a publicist and being sure to advocate for teen voices in-house when I do. I’ll always read and love YA. But it won’t always be for me, you know? So then I have to make sure to advocate for the teens it is for, like my grandmother always did.”

  The heads in the audience nod and I relax into my seat.

  I can’t make Nash forgive me.

  I can finish this panel strong.

  * * *

  After the panel concludes, I bolt. Down the hallway of conference rooms to the food court. I’m starving and somehow it’s the only place I can think he might be.

  I spot his neon blue sneakers first.

  He’s sitting at one of the food court tables, furiously texting—so focused on his phone he doesn’t even hear me say his name, doesn’t even notice me sit down.

  “Nash,” I say.

  He jumps and looks up. “What was that?”

  “Um—an apology?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a PR move.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “To Book Twitter, I’m now the asshole who walked out on your extra public apology.”

  I blink, shook by Nash’s anger. “No. That’s not—how could you even think that? I said I’m sorry because I am sorry. I know you don’t believe me, and I promise it’s the last time I’ll say it. But I need you to know that I am so, so sorry. I never should’ve lied to you, especially when things got real between us. There were so many moments where I almost said it—but then you said something or I got scared and … I couldn’t find the words. So I kept waiting for the right time, but I’d already missed it. The second I
met you? I should’ve told you. The second I knew I loved you, I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

  My words hang in the air, the weight of the rambling mess crashing on my shoulders.

  “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

  “I can’t believe you said that out loud,” Nash says, his expression softening.

  The scent of freshly made French fries wafts through the food court and my stomach moans, reminding me that I haven’t eaten today. I want fries, and wow, I want them now.

  Shut up, stomach. So not the time.

  I cover my face with my hands, wondering why I am the way that I am.

  When I open my eyes, Nash has silently disappeared and I can’t believe it. I know he’s pissed, but to just run away? I clutch my stomach, which is still making the god-awful give me fries noises, the panic of the empty table doubling the rate of my heart. But then I look over my shoulder and exhale because Nash is in the fries line.

  He comes back to the table with two large fries, a packet of ketchup for him, and honey mustard for me. Because honey mustard is the superior dipping sauce of choice, obviously.

  But I’ve never dipped fries in honey mustard in front of Nash.

  My heart swells with this realization.

  It’s a Kels thing. A running argument. We got into a stupid Twitter war over it. Polls and all.

  But Nash got it for me, Halle. It’s a me thing.

  Nash’s nose crinkles when the first fry makes contact with the honey mustard.

  I dip another fry in the honey mustard and hold it out to him.

  He shakes his head.

  I shrug because it’s his loss, really. We eat the rest of our fries in silence and Nash sticks with his ketchup. It sucks because I already said so much, and there’s so much I still want to say. But I don’t want to overload him and Nash is giving me nothing.

  This sucks.

  “This sucks,” Nash says.

  I want to laugh or burst into tears or both.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It really does.”

  “I just …” Nash pauses. Breathes. “These last two months have been really hard, Halle.”

  His voice breaks when he says my name and I can’t.

  “I know,” I say.