by Katy Cannon
And I had to do it on my own.
Which is why, the day before the Gala Dinner, I was hunched over my notebook in a quiet corner of the library, letting the lower school Book Club run riot in the main area, trying to make sense of my own notes.
“Hey.” The voice permeated my fog of constant panic (and the racket that the Book Club were making) and I looked up to see Drew standing over me, his face shadowed by the light from the windows behind him.
“Hi.” Well, that was an inspired comeback, wasn’t it? Our first conversation since our argument, and that was all I could manage? You’d never believe that Gran’s editor had actually praised the dialogue in the last book, would you? Shame it had turned out that I couldn’t just script all my real world conversations. However hard I tried.
Drew shifted from one foot to the other, as if unsure whether he was allowed to sit down or not.
Well, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He might have had his own reasons for being angry but that didn’t change any of the horrible things he’d said to me.
“You know the Book Club are building a sort of domino rally out of the books right now?” he said, after a moment.
“As long as nothing’s on fire, I don’t have the capacity to worry about it today,” I replied.
Drew stood a moment longer, then obviously realized I wasn’t going to invite him to sit, so he pulled out a chair and sat down anyway.
“Still stressing about your gran’s book?” he asked.
I sighed and put down my pen. “Look, I know you think I’m being a drama llama about this, or whatever, but this is actually hard work, you know. Just because my gran is a famous author doesn’t mean it comes naturally or easily to me. I’ve been working on her books with her for years already, proofreading them, helping her edit them, reading her first drafts and typing them up… I should know how this works and I still can’t find my way to the end of this story.”
“I never said I thought it was easy,” Drew said quietly. “And I shouldn’t have said what I said. I guess my past experiences might have given me a bit of a hang-up about certain things.”
“Like a person using someone else just to get famous,” I said. “I read about what happened to your step-sister. What Zach did. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well. She got over it, anyway,” Drew said. “Once the show was cancelled, she started to come out of her shell a bit, I think. The teachers there – the real ones, not the ones they brought in for the show – they saw her talent. My parents moved us closer so she doesn’t have to board at the school any more and she comes home every night, which she loves.”
“That’s why you moved to St Stephen’s?” I asked.
Drew nodded. “It’s helped. Mum and Dad always wanted to open an animal shelter, and they found the perfect site around here, so…” he shrugged.
“And then Zach moved here, too.”
“Yeah.” Drew gave me a sort of half smile. “Which is good, in some ways. I mean, Eleanor’s much happier now he’s left her school.”
“Good. I’m glad about that, at least.”
“It’s only me who can’t seem to move past it,” he added, looking at me with that lopsided smile. “You know, I don’t think he even knew who I was, to start with. Given the way he’s been avoiding me lately though, I’m guessing he figured it out.”
“He saw you with Eleanor at the Spring Fete,” I said, suddenly remembering Zach’s weird expression that day.
“That would explain it.”
There was a small pause, where we just stared at each other, until the need to speak swelled up in my chest.
“I broke up with Zach.” I blurted the words out, not because I thought they’d make anything better, exactly. Just because I needed him to know.
“Because of Eleanor?”
“Among other reasons. It wasn’t ever going to work between us.”
“I’m sorry.” Drew reached out and rested his hand on mine, just for a moment. The warmth of it fizzed through me.
I shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m not. He wasn’t the guy for me.” Because I’d never felt the sort of fizz Drew gave me by just touching my hand, even when I was kissing Zach.
“In that case, I’m glad.” Drew’s gaze locked on to mine and, for a moment, I thought he might actually kiss me again.
Then there was an almighty crash from out by the library desk, and the Book Club all groaned in unison, so I figured I’d better go and find out what on earth was going on. “Hold that thought,” I told Drew and went to investigate.
Once I’d surveyed the destruction, marvelled that they’d managed to make such a mess in so little time, instructed the Book Club to reassemble the library (and warned them that Rachel would be back from lunch soon), I headed back to my corner – and Drew.
He’d shifted around to steal my seat, and was studying my pages and pages of almost illegible notes with a frown. Something tightened in my chest at the sight of him reading my words – especially ones that were so unready. But if I wanted his help, he had to know what we were dealing with.
“This is what you have for the ending so far?” he asked without looking up.
I nodded, then realized he wouldn’t see that. “Yeah. I thought I knew what needed to happen, but when it came to writing it, it just wasn’t there. It wasn’t right. And I can’t find what I need for the ending. I need … something.”
“Inspiration,” Drew said, nailing in one word everything I’d been fighting for weeks.
Sighing, I sank into his now-vacant chair. “Basically. Yeah.”
Drew shuffled the papers into a loose stack, and sat back, folding his arms across his chest as he stared at me. “Well, try going back to the beginning. Why do you want to write this story?”
“Because Gran needs me to,” I answered quickly. “Because … it’s not just for me, Drew. Not just to get my name in print – if Gran even ever tells anyone I wrote it. It’s because she loves her fans so much. And she wants me to continue her legacy. And…” I stuttered to a stop. “She’s sick,” I whispered, after a moment. “And I think … I think she needs me to do this.”
Drew reached across the gap between us and took my hand again, holding on tightly this time. “I get it, Tilly. I do. But what I’m asking is… Why do you want to write this story?”
I blinked at him. That was the first time I’d ever heard him use my first name. Things must be bad. “What do you mean?”
“This story … it doesn’t feel like you.”
“It’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to feel like one of Gran’s books.” But the difference was, those were the books Gran loved, the ones she’d always wanted to write.
I loved them, too – loved reading them, editing them. But they weren’t my books. My ideas. My stories.
“Maybe that’s your problem.” Drew gave my hand another squeeze and let go. “Your gran’s books – they’re not your kind of stories. Not completely.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “Have you read them?”
“Yes.”
I blinked in surprise, remembering how Zach had laughed when I’d suggested he try them. “Really?”
“Some of them,” Drew said with a small shrug. “Mostly the Aurora series. I wanted to know what you were working on – and to read the ending you wrote for the last one.”
“You read the entire Aurora series since our argument?”
“It was a slow half-term. Not many shifts at the hotel, so I spent a lot of time manning the reception desk at the animal shelter and reading.”
“And what did you think?” I don’t know why my chest tightened as I waited for his answer. I’d only worked on a fraction of the series anyway. But something in me … I wanted him to understand why these books mattered to me.
“I thought that your gran has an amazing capacity for character.”
I laughed. “You didn’t like them, then.”
“I did, actually.” He flashed me a smile. “I mean, they’re not really
my kind of books. But I could see what you loved about them. The communities, the relationships – all the things you’re always going on about in Book Club and English.”
“So why can’t I write another book like that?” I asked, hoping against hope that there was an easy answer. Something I could fix.
“Because it’s still your gran’s style, not yours. And as much as I know you love those books, your stories need to have the same layers and complexities that you have – they’re the things that make them yours. You can’t write a book you don’t believe in. At least, you can’t write it well. Not the way you want to.”
Like my romance with Zach. On paper, he was perfect for me. But when it came down to it, there was no spark. It just didn’t work.
“So I need to find something about it that I love. Something that makes it mine.” I could feel the panic rising as I grabbed the sheets of paper from him, scanning them desperately for something that would make the story click.
“What if it’s not there?” Drew asked. “What if this isn’t your book?”
“That can’t happen,” I snapped. “I can make this work. I finished the last book for her, didn’t I? What do you even know about writing a book, anyway?”
Drew gave a sharp, surprised laugh. “Do you really believe you’re the only writer around here?” I glanced up at him and he shook his head. “Still so busy being the heroine of your own story that you don’t notice the subplots.”
With that, he stood up and lifted his backpack on to his shoulder. “Good luck with the book. I hope it works out for you. But believe me, if you don’t love what you’re writing, if you can’t put your real self into it … it’s never going to be the story you’re hoping for.”
I watched him walk away, past the lower school Book Club as they prepared to leave, through the library doors and out into the real world. And I stared at those doors for a long while after he’d gone, his words ringing through my mind.
So busy being the heroine of your own story.
Was I? Maybe. I hadn’t noticed what was going on with Gran, or with Rohan and Anja. I hadn’t realized what Zach was really up to.
And I hadn’t realized until now, until Drew had forced me to see it, that the reason I couldn’t write this book was – it wasn’t the book I really wanted to write. I didn’t even want Eva to end up with Will, like she was supposed to, instead of Tomasz.
Shaking myself to break the spell of his departure, I grabbed the notebook Gran had given me when this all started and flicked through it. Page after page of my thoughts on everything that had happened over the last three or four months – to me, to my friends, with Zach and Drew, with my family … everything. I flipped it over – the other side was full of edit notes for Looking Glass, questions for Juanita Cabrera, notes on the book I was still trying to finish, snatches of conversation I’d overheard at school, in the library, even at the Queen Bea Afternoon Tea.
But none of it felt like the book I’d written so far or the ending I was searching for.
I turned back to the first page again, running my finger over Gran’s inscription.
Write Me Down.
Drew was right. I had to put something of myself into my writing, or it wouldn’t feel real. That was what Gran had been telling me when she gave me the notebook.
I was trying to be Gran for her fans – trying to be something I wasn’t.
That was why it wasn’t working.
“I don’t want to write Gran’s books,” I said softly, to the now empty, silent library. “I want to write my book.”
I didn’t even know what that was yet. But I knew it was inside me, somewhere, waiting for me to be ready for it.
And finally, I thought I might be.
Late that night, when I was sure that everyone else in the house was asleep (even the twins), I crept out of my room and along the landing towards Gran’s study. I picked my way out carefully, avoiding the creaking floorboards and squeaky patches as I went. I didn’t want any witnesses to what I was about to do.
Gran’s study door was slightly ajar, so I eased my way through without opening it any more than necessary.
Inside, it looked just like it always had. The chaise longue in the far window, flanked by the two antique filing cabinets. Gran’s heavy, wooden desk with the computer perched incongruously on top, like something sent from the future into this office of the past. The hat stand, with a variety of headgear hung from it to suit all writing moods, and two silk kimonos hung from the pegs below – one red, one black. My armchair, battered and scratched, in the corner by the window, waiting for me to curl up in it and talk plot lines with Gran.
Except I might never do that again.
Sadness grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed, choking me as tears sprung from my eyes.
With great care, I set the print-out of the unfinished book I’d written in the centre of her desk, and placed the green writing hat Gran had given me on top of it, where she couldn’t miss it. Against them, I leaned the letter I’d written to her and hoped it wasn’t too tearstained.
I resisted the urge to open the envelope and check again the words I’d written. I already knew what it said.
It said that my writing adventure was over.
Then, without looking back, I walked back to my room and cried until I slept.
The next day, the day of the Westerbury Literary Festival Gala Dinner, I went out of my way to avoid Gran. I knew she’d found my letter, because I’d heard the giant crash of a vase breaking in her study that morning. Now, all I could do was give her time to calm down, to come to terms with my decision.
Hopefully. One day. Maybe.
For now, I snuck out of the house to school before she could come and find me, and planned to stay out until everyone had left for the Gala Dinner.
I couldn’t face going. And I wasn’t entirely sure Gran would even want me there.
I knew they’d worry, so I texted Mum to explain, without going into too many details, that I wouldn’t be there. She messaged back to ask if I was sure, and when I said I was, told me we’d talk later with hot chocolate.
I love my mum.
When I was sure my family would have left for the dinner, I took the woods path home (in case they drove past me) and came out by the kitchen door. I did a quick check to make sure there was no one around, and then I let myself into the house for an evening of tea and self-pity.
Except I’d forgotten about the twins. And the fact that they’d need babysitters.
“You’re here! You just missed them leaving for the dinner.” Anja jumped up from the kitchen stool and hugged me, while Rohan opened a packet of my favourite biscuits. Then she frowned. “Wait, didn’t they drive past you?”
“I came through the woods from town,” I said, helping myself to a biscuit.
“If you hurry you can probably catch them up,” Rohan said. “I’ll call you a taxi, if you like.”
“Just don’t wake the twins up when you’re getting changed,” Anja added nervously. “Your mum got them to sleep and I’m not sure I fully understood her instructions for what to do if they woke up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay here with you,” I said. Now I thought about it, an evening in with my best friends didn’t sound too bad. Even if I did have to play third wheel all night. “No one deserves the twins for their first babysitting gig.”
Anja and Rohan exchanged a look. “You can’t miss the dinner,” Rohan said. “Your gran really wants you there.”
“I kind of doubt that,” I said, pulling a face. “I sort of told her I won’t write any more books for her. Besides, I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Definitely don’t fancy a night out in Zach’s pink dress?” Anja, who’d seen the photo evidence of the monstrosity, laughed.
“Hell, no.”
“Just as well we have another option for you, then, isn’t it,” Rohan said.
I looked between them in confusion.
“Come on.” Anja took my arm.
“It’s upstairs.”
Once again, I was led up to my room to look at a dress. This time, I didn’t have my hopes up. Plus, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to go to the Gala Dinner, so I wasn’t going to wear the—
“Oh.”
Anja nudged Rohan in the ribs. “I told you this was the one.”
“Your gran chose it,” Rohan said. “Well, with a bit of help from us.”
“She called me, after your mum asked us to babysit tonight,” Anja explained. “She told me about your letter. About you returning the hat.”
“She sounded more upset about the hat to be honest,” Rohan put in. “We had her on speakerphone.”
I tried to laugh (because of course Gran was most bothered by me giving back the hat) but it came out all watery.
“She wanted you to have something to wear tonight that was … well, you. So the three of us went down to the boutique in Westerbury after school and chose you this.” Anja reached up and unhooked the clothes hanger from the top of my wardrobe door. “Want to try it on?”
I nodded wordlessly.
I left them in the bedroom and got changed in the family bathroom, the wall of mirrors behind the sink reflecting the delicate shimmer of the dress back at me. It was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen – a simple flowing cut but in the most glorious golden fabric – not shiny, but not matt either. Like magic in a dress.
When I stood fully dressed and looked at myself, I realized that Anja had been wrong. This dress wasn’t me.
This dress was the Tilly I wanted to be.
The Tilly who wrote her own stories. Who kissed the guy who made her see lightning flashes, not the one who charmed her family. Who went out there and owned her accomplishments – and her mistakes, too.
“Come on! We want to see!” Rohan knocked on the door impatiently, and I heard Anja hush him quickly.
“The twins!” she hissed. “If you wake them, you’re in charge of getting them back to sleep.”
Smiling at Rohan’s grumbled reply, I unlocked the door and stepped out.
“Wow.” Rohan looked me up and down, beaming. “You look fantastic! Almost as good as Anja.”
