I’m out of bed, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
I pinch myself once, twice, three times. I can’t be awake right now. Dreaming, I’m dreaming, this is a dream. One more new nightmare to add to the list. That’s all, nothing more.
I yank my nightstand drawer open and closed a few times, slamming it back in so hard that my lamp teeters and falls to the floor, the bulb breaking and splintering across the wooden floor. I bend down to scoop up the biggest pieces, and a shard slips and slices through my skin. A single drop of blood stains my comforter as I lean back against the bed for support.
I can feel the sting of pain. I can feel everything—the fresh cut on my finger, the cool air on my bare arms and legs, my throbbing, constricting chest.
This isn’t sleep. I’m not just dreaming.
Which means that the blog post, the text from Susan: it’s all real.
I blot my finger on a tissue and run to my desk, flip my laptop open. Elisabeth Early, I type, and her too-familiar homepage pops up on the screen. I try not to look at her blog, but I can never stop myself. She’s one of the only bloggers who actively dislikes Lemonade Skies. That hadn’t prevented her from coming to my first-ever reading in Philly—she lives in a suburb just outside the city—to smile at me and shake my hand, as if she hadn’t already said that the first book was “trifling and sophomoric and tired.” My dad was of course more offended than I was—rightfully so. In a strange way, I was thrilled that she’d called the writing sophomoric. It meant she believed the book was actually written by a teenager. Her review was nastier for the second book, though, her growing bewilderment about why in the world other readers cared so much. “There are a million other books more deserving of that bestseller status.”
I’d hurt for my dad when I’d read that line. I’d hurt for Marigold, too. She was my literary sister, after all.
As bad as that post was, it has nothing on this latest one. I stare at the screen. Stare at those words again, those terrible, horrific, true words.
LEMONADE SKIES FANS: MEET THEO TATE, THE REAL AUTHOR OF YOUR BELOVED SERIES.
I can’t breathe. Or blink. Or move my finger to scroll the mouse. So I keep staring, the swirly teal letters bold and underlined and looking so very certain and confident. Just below I can see the top half of a photo of Dad and me from this last tour, him smiling down at me as I sign a big stack of Lemonade Skies inventory. Seeing it now, with that glaring headline above it, his smile looks maybe too proud. Too territorial. I’m sure that’s what our thousands of fans—former fans—are thinking right now, too, in exactly this moment, all across the globe.
My finger is pressing on the mouse, scrolling, against my will. I read it all, every last hideous word. I have to. I have to know.
Well, now, this is a twist none of us expected, right? (Not even me, one of the only Lemonade Skies detractors on the Internet!!!) I’d always chalked up the saccharine voice and paper-thin, almost nonexistent character development to the fact that the author was a teenager. Sure, considering her age, Thistle was above average. That didn’t make her books any more entertaining or more readable, but it was a reasonable excuse. (I mean, heck, I could barely manage to scrape together ten pages for an essay when I was her age!) I figured she’d probably develop more polish and depth with age. That maybe I’d actually like later books down the road. But in light of what I know now—that Thistle’s 55-year-old father, THEO TATE, is actually **the author** of these books, just color me downright confused. I guess the writing is just mediocre because it’s mediocre, independent of age or actual life experience. Huh. Go figure.
Thank god I never liked these books to begin with, because boy would I be pissed as hell right now. Theo and Thistle, heads up: lying isn’t cool. It isn’t fair. And I think I speak for many of your fans when I say that I hope you have to return your ridiculously oversized advances and that the third book never sees the light of day. Even if I’d been planning on reading it (let’s be honest, I wasn’t, but still), you couldn’t pay me to do it now. There are way too many infinitely more deserving books out there.
What do you all think about it? Very curious to hear your thoughts!
Perhaps a petition to Zenith is in order…
**I apologize profusely if I’m wrong. I will write the longest apology ever to be seen. So believe what you want to believe. But me…I’m going to believe this until proven otherwise.**
XX Elisabeth XX
I had wondered what it would be like—what I would be like, how I would feel—if the worst ever happened. But right now, I feel nothing. Not yet. I am still, quiet, numb. Empty. I want to feel something, anything, but there are too many things I could be feeling, and I can’t seem to process which one to pick. I can categorize them all neatly, ticking off my options:
I could feel furious. Outraged that someone betrayed me. Who, though? An image of my dad pops into my mind first—our last real conversation. Maybe we should tell them the truth, Thistle. But I don’t let myself think about it more, not yet.
I could feel ashamed. The world knows I’m a fraud. A talentless nobody.
I could feel scared. What will Zenith do to punish us?
I could also feel…relieved. The secret is out. I can stop pretending.
Instead of deciding, I take a long shower. I tilt my face into the too-hot stream of water, lather my body and hair in floral-scented bubbles. My skin is bright red when I finally step out and towel myself off. I pat my hair dry and comb through the tangles. I consider what to wear.
It’s this moment, this one insignificant decision, that starts to break me. The first crack.
Because what do I wear on a day like today?
What clothes are appropriate for when your entire world is imploding?
Certainly nothing tainted by Marigold. I want to pull out every tour dress, skirt, blouse from my closet—douse them in gasoline in a trash bin out in the backyard, watch until the last marigold-colored frill burns up in smoke. For now, I content myself with tossing them one by one into a towering heap on the closet floor.
I put on my mom’s gray wool sweater again. I can still remember exactly how I felt the last time I wore it, the morning after my first kiss with Liam.
Liam. He’s one person I can talk to at least. One person whose entire opinion of me won’t be blown apart by this public revelation. He probably hasn’t even heard the news yet, since he has no interest in the YA world beyond me. To him, the YA canon consists solely of Harry Potter (loves), Twilight (hates), and Lemonade Skies (likes by default). But now doesn’t feel like the right time to lean on him.
Oliver, though…Oliver and Emma. They would know. Emma would no doubt have seen it blasting through her social media feeds.
I shatter all the way through now, every last lucid piece of me sliding away. I’m sobbing so hard I can barely see through the tears as I storm downstairs to Dad’s room.
“Was it you?” I scream, flinging open his door without knocking.
He’s watching me with confused, sleepy eyes. This only makes me angrier. Much angrier. I slam the door shut behind me and he jolts forward, pushing the button that shifts his bed into an upright position. He shakes his head back and forth, like he’s clearing out the fog from his brain.
“What the hell is going on, Thistle? I just woke up. What are you talking about?”
“Elisabeth Early. She posted this morning about how it’s all a lie, that you are the author. Not me. Never me. You.”
His mouth gapes open. “Everyone knows? And you think…it’s because of me?”
“Probably. Maybe.”
“Can you bring my laptop over to me? I need to see the post.”
I walk over and pick the computer up from his desk, drop it unceremoniously onto his lap without his usual mouse. It’s propped at a difficult angle for him to navigate with his arms still in slings, but I don’t off
er any additional help. He shifts against the bed until his fingers hit the keys, and I can tell when he finds Elisabeth Early’s page because his whole face suddenly crumples in on itself.
I have to look away. “I mean, you’re the most logical answer. Who else would it be?”
He stares at me like he’s never seen me before. “Even if I had decided that you and I would be better off if we just ended this whole charade—I’d have had a quiet conversation with Elliot and Susan first. Maybe it wouldn’t have stayed quiet, but I would have tried. And I certainly would have talked it through with you before I did anything.”
“But who else is there?” I whine, desperate and needy. I sound like I’m five years old again, begging for another bowl of ice cream before bed. “I mean, has Mrs. Rizzo been spying? Or, no, wait—oh my god, oh my god, Mia. It’s Mia! She’s overheard us talking about it. She lives here. She knows what’s going on. She obviously was the one who—”
“Why would Mia care about this?” Dad interrupts, squinting up at me.
“Mia!” I jerk the door open and lean my head out into the hall—“Mia!”—yelling much louder than necessary because she’s standing in the kitchen just a few feet away.
“Yes?” I can’t read her tone, if it’s panicked or curious or confused.
“Was it you?” I step out into the hallway, directly facing her. “Did you blow the whistle? Tell the whole world that I’m not the real author?”
“Excuse me?” Her brow wrinkles and her usually friendly face is now anything but. “Whistle-blowing? What are you even talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I am not lying to you. Is this about those books all over your dad’s room? The writing he tried to do? I wondered what was going on, the way you stomp in and out of there and the way he carries on about disappointing you, but honey, that’s none of my business. And truth be told, I don’t really care who wrote the books.”
I don’t want to believe her, I don’t, but there’s not even the slightest trace of guilt on her face.
“Oh,” I say, wishing I could slip between the wooden floorboards. “I’m sorry.” I slink back toward Dad’s room. “I really am.”
Mia nods, already turned away from me, busy or at least pretending to be busy with some papers stacked on the kitchen counter.
Dad’s studying me as I fall against the end of his bed, eyes filled with what I suspect is pity. I can’t look at him. “Thistle…” He stops. Then, “Thistle, did you tell Liam?”
My body stiffens and I push off the bed. “Yes.”
“I thought it was supposed to be our secret, like we discussed. But I guess a part of me wondered. He never seems particularly happy when I’m around. He definitely gives me the stink-eye sometimes.”
“I tell him everything.” I did tell him everything.
“I know. Wishful thinking on my part. But I guess you had to vent to someone, right? It was a lot to carry around.”
I don’t bother responding to that.
“What’s done is done. But I’m asking because, I don’t know…do you think there’s any chance he could have done this? Was he upset with you about anything?”
My throat constricts. Liam. No. He wouldn’t. Ever.
Liam.
“It’s the only option,” he says quietly. Carefully. “Unless you’ve told someone else?”
“Liam is my best friend.”
Dad sighs, his brows furrowing into deep wrinkles as he closes his eyes. “I know he cares about you,” he says, his eyes still shut. The words come slowly, each like a little weight being pressed off his tongue. “He worries about you, I can tell. Maybe in some twisted way he thought he’d be helping you…?”
“That makes no sense. He wouldn’t. No way—”
I have to ask him. Now. Before I can do anything else, before I can breathe again.
I’m flying out of Dad’s room, down the hall and through the front door. It’s cold and rainy and gray outside, exactly the kind of ugly weather I’d expect from this day. I leap up the Carusos’ stoop two stairs at a time and pound at the buzzer.
The door opens, and Liam’s there, eyes wide. “Thistle,” he says. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, ratty pajamas and messy hair, his normal Saturday-morning look. But it’s not a normal Saturday morning. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I slip past him and into the house.
“I mean—you seem…upset?” He sounds conflicted, like he’s not sure what to give away yet. Just in case I don’t know.
“Was it you?” It comes out more as a gasp than actual words. I can feel myself crumbling, tears welling, but I will them back in. I take a deep breath, make myself stand up straighter.
He shuffles his bare feet on the thick Persian carpet, staring up at the ceiling.
“Was it?” I’m louder this time. Too loud to be ignored.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I met Elisabeth at your first event here, remember? Though she’d already been such a witch about the book that I hardly said two words to her. But she remembered me from that night. She trusted me, especially when—”
I cut him off. “I didn’t mean how as in the logistics of it, Liam. I’m not an idiot. You met her, you remembered that she wasn’t one of my biggest fans, so she’d be way more easily swayed to believe a story like this. Good work.”
My voice sounds cold and cutting, cruel enough that Liam physically recoils, taking a few steps back to get farther away from me. I watch as he steadies himself again. He looks at me straight on.
“I saw you,” he says.
“You saw me what?”
“I saw you kiss him. I saw you kiss Oliver yesterday.”
“Oh.” The words pound me in the stomach, sharp and jagged and deep. I lean against the wall because I’m not sure I can keep standing without it.
“I was hoping when I called last night you’d admit to it at least. I came home early to see you because you’d sounded so down the night before. Skipped a big game and pissed off my coach royally, but I didn’t care. And then you weren’t home when I stopped by, but I was looking out the window—”
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am.
“Are you?”
“I’m sorry that it happened that way. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t honest about it. I was going to tell you, though. I didn’t want to do it on the phone.”
“Sure.”
“I promise. I was going to tell you today.”
He snorts. “You told me it was all about the book. Another lie. It’s all lies with you now. Do you even know how to be honest about anything?” He rakes his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “It’s scary. Like I don’t even know you anymore. Those books, your whole charade, it was ruining our relationship. So I thought you needed something to make you stop lying. Something that would make you realize how messed up you’d become. How many people you were hurting.”
“What I did with Oliver was wrong, and I apologize for how that went down. But it was no excuse for you to go running to the enemy.”
“Are you mad because Emma will find out the truth? Oliver?” Liam’s voice tightens around his name, as if it’s foul-tasting bile that needs to be immediately spit out. “Now he’ll know who you really are?”
I slide down the wall to the floor, hugging my knees tight in to my chest. “People will hate me, including Oliver and Emma. People will tear me apart online. Can you even imagine the things fans are saying right now? Can you imagine the hate messages I’m going to be getting for weeks? Months?” I shake my head. “You don’t have a clue. You just stormed in like a vindictive monster crushing everything in its path. You were jealous, and you decided to ruin my entire life because of one stupid kiss. You had a right to be mad at me. But you didn’t have the right to destroy everything.”
&n
bsp; He’s on his hands and knees now on the floor next to me, head ducked down. “You’re right. I was jealous. And pissed. But honestly? I thought it was only a matter of time before the truth was out anyway, since your dad wouldn’t be able to finish it. I thought at least you could get the shitty part done with so you could move on with your life. So you could be free. It wasn’t all about revenge.”
“That’s what you’re telling yourself? And what am I going to do with all this freedom?”
“You—you be you. Be honest. You do whatever you want to do, not what someone else is pushing you into. All those crazy expectations—they’re gone.”
“Dad could go to jail, Liam. That’s not freedom.”
“They’re not putting him in jail. Worst case I bet he has to give some money back.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know that I love you. We both messed this up bad, really bad—but we can work this out. It’s you and me. We can fix this.”
Love. He’s leaning in toward me, his arms reaching out to pull me closer. I jerk away, pushing back up to my feet. Love.
Had I loved him? Do I love him now? Or was this whole thing out of…convenience? Because we’re neighbors. Because he was all I knew of the outside world. I don’t know. I can’t know. Especially now, because whatever it was—it’s over.
“There’s nothing left to fix. With us. Or with the book. I was handling that just fine, for the record. Our ideas were really good, just as good if not more so than anything my dad could’ve come up with.” I feel a flash of pride as I say it, even though it doesn’t matter. None of it matters now. “I might have messed up, but I didn’t do it to hurt you. That’s the difference between you and me. I never wanted to hurt anyone. And if this is what love is, I don’t want love, ever. Not yours, at least.”
I’m shaking, I realize, my legs wobbling. I might faint if I move, but even fainting would be better than staying here with Liam. I don’t say a word as I start to leave. There’s nothing else to be said. Liam must realize that much at least, because he doesn’t try to stop me.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 15
