I don’t write on the second day of Art of the Novel. Or the third. Or even the fourth.
And the thing is, it’s not just in Art of the Novel where I’m frozen. I don’t write outside of that class either. At first I hold out hope that maybe I just can’t write with people next to me. So I try my bed, the backyard, and the sunny spot on the couch that was becoming my favorite, but still nothing comes.
I decide to seek out inspiration. I reread Anna and the French Kiss and The Sun Is Also a Star and Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda and basically everything by the queen, Sarah Dessen. I scroll through my favorite Twilight fan fiction (Jacob and Bella). I read and then watch To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. I binge those ancient movies with the red-haired girl, which are definitely a racist, sexist mess but also kinda good.
Most of those stories don’t have protagonists who look like me. But that’s nothing new. I usually have no problem mentally superimposing myself onto white-girl love interests.
But still, nada.
I don’t have Art of the Novel every day, though, so my week is only bookended with the demoralizing reminder that I’m a fraud. With all of my other conservatory classes, I can almost forget that I’m not actually earning my place here. I can almost feel like I belong.
For a creative writing program, I can surprisingly get away with not doing a whole lot of writing. My genre study of magical realism meets on Tuesdays, and that just turns out to be a chance for Ms. Becker, who studied abroad in Colombia way long ago, to talk about how much she loves Gabriel García Márquez. Wednesday is Book Club, and my group chooses to read and study The Hate U Give (and they don’t even stare at me meaningfully after making the choice). And then Thursday I work on the school’s lit mag, Wings. When they asked for volunteers to copyedit, I quickly signed myself up—not that there was much competition. Everyone else wanted to write.
I should be relieved, right? I should be thrilled that no one has noticed I’m not doing the one thing I’m supposed to be doing here.
But I don’t want to spend my time at Chrysalis tricking people. I want to be actually writing in class instead of just pretending to. Instead, left with no choice as the due date arrives, I send Ms. McKinney old chapters of my Tallulah story and cross my fingers they weren’t in the portfolio Mom originally sent. When I get her first feedback, little bubbles on the side of the document just like the ones from Caroline, I scroll through them slowly, my heart racing like a monster may jump out at any moment. They’re okay at first: “Nice!” and “Love this description!” But then I see “Repetitive” and a longer comment that starts with “Not sure if this is realistic,” and I stop reading. It’s all too overwhelming.
The reality of my situation follows me around like a dark cloud. When I’m driving with Sam, eating lunch with my new friends, walking the hallways that should bring me joy—it’s always there. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. I’m terrified at every moment that someone will find out my secret. They’ll realize my admission was a mistake and send me to the regular high school where I belong.
One Tuesday evening, Dad is working late and Mom has to drive to Huntington Beach to run some errand, so I’m on Miles duty. The home phone is unplugged, and we’re watching old Dream Zone interviews on my laptop (at least I can find some use for it).
“Do you think a place can bring on something terrible?” I ask Miles, interrupting Thad’s monologue about his favorite foods. Miles scoots back to lean against the wall. “Or does it reveal flaws that have always been there, and it’s just, like, sparking the inevitable? Like, maybe this was always going to happen and I really should be thanking this place instead of resenting it for showing me so clearly that I should just get out now.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, his voice steady, and that makes me spring up.
“You do?” I don’t even know what I mean.
“Yeah, that’s how I felt the first week at Bixby High when I went to the vending machine and they had Sierra Mist instead of Sprite.”
I laugh. And then he laughs because he made me laugh. I pull him into a hug, and his short hair scratches my chin. “Glad you can relate, bud.”
Then his whole body goes still, which it never is, and when I look down at his face, he’s looking at me with bright, clear eyes.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“How are you so sure? Let me tell you, it’s not looking promising.”
“Because you have to. You’ve got this.” He wriggles out of my hug and shrugs, like it’s just as simple as that.
And I want it to be. I have to figure it out because I can’t disappoint my parents. Because I don’t want to leave this school that feels like the right place for me (you know, outside of the whole being-an-artistic-fraud thing). And I can’t let down Caroline by not sharing new chapters with her. It’s our thing, and the long distance is already pushing us apart.
Writing is what I do, and who even am I anymore if I don’t write?