I have it all worked out.
Ms. McKinney usually starts the workshop in the last thirty minutes of class, which seems like too much time to me. But we always somehow go over—with some readers going on and on, making allusions to Beckett and Vonnegut in an attempt to show off their literary knowledge, and some writers trying to justify every last thing that was criticized in their work. It may be my day to share, but I don’t plan on being in class to participate in the circle of creative torture. No, I’m going to find an excuse to leave forty minutes before class ends, disappear until the final bell, and then deal with whatever consequences when I get back. It’s not like they’ll sit around waiting for me. Those real writers will be jumping over each other, probably, to take my place.
I’ve never been one to ditch class (and does this really count?), but I’ll do whatever I have to.
See, I don’t deserve to be here.
When I first figured that out, realized my lack of words was my new normal, it was a gaping wound. This thing that I’ve loved for so long wasn’t mine anymore, and someone might as well have chopped off my arm or something.
But the pain is dulling. And now that Caroline and I have a plan, however silly it may be, all I feel is overwhelming resolve that I’m definitely, definitely going to keep Ms. McKinney and Nico and all these real writers from finding out what I’ve been hiding. Because I may not deserve to be here now, but I’m going to fix that soon.
So I stare studiously at my computer screen, I type my name and my address about a million times, and I even grab a book off the shelf—A Clockwork Orange?—to look like I’m using it for a reference or something. But when the clock hits go time, I close my computer and quietly walk up to Ms. McKinney.
“Miss, can I go to the restroom?”
She looks past me to the clock on the wall, and her eyebrows press together.
“Can you wait until class is over? It’s almost time to begin workshop.”
“It’s kind of . . . uh, an emergency.”
She clutches her hands together and looks me right in the eyes. “Are you sure? You seemed fine just a minute ago. It appeared you were typing a great deal.”
Her eyes are pale blue, almost clear, and it feels like they’re seeing right through me. I almost confess right then, taken with her magical teacher powers, but then I look past her and see Nico. He’s looking up from his Moleskine and watching our interaction.
Nope. I gotta leave.
“I’m having, like . . . stomach problems.” I clutch my waist and wince to really sell it. “I need to go to the restroom. Now.”
That seems to do it. “Okay, well, do you want to leave your copies here, so we can pass them out while you’re gone?” she asks, but I’m already fleeing.
“When I get back,” I call over my shoulder.
I run up the stairs like someone’s chasing me, and as soon as I reach the top, the tightness in my chest releases. Yeah, I basically just said I had to poop in front of the most gorgeous guy in the world, but whatever. It was necessary.
I’m good. For today.
Except, while I definitely had a plan for getting out of class, I didn’t really figure out what I was going to do after that. My stuff’s down there, including my phone. And I can’t go walking around campus—one of the administrators or the security guard would stop me, and then I’d have to explain that to Ms. McKinney too.
I go to the restroom on the main floor of the Bungalow, to feel a little less like a liar, but then I end up in the kitchen, out of sight from the basement door, and lean against the counter. The worry kicks in immediately. Should I be counting the minutes to make sure I don’t go down too early? But I guess I’ll hear the people come up when class is done. Unless Ms. McKinney sends someone sooner. Would she tell them why I was gone? Like, am I going to get a reputation as Diarrhea Girl or something? Is that worse than being known as a nonwriter?
My pulse is rising and my neck is hot again, and I must jump three feet when I hear the squeak on the hardwood floor announcing someone’s arrival in the kitchen.
“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
I don’t want to look up, knowing who that voice belongs to. But of course I do anyway, taking in his full lips and shiny brown curls. He has tight black pants on, brown boots, and a navy polka-dot button-up with the short sleeves rolled up. It takes all my willpower not to visibly swoon.
“Uh, hi.”
“Hey. Ms. McKinney sent me up to find you, but you seem . . . better?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine, totally fine.” Then I remember I’m supposed to be selling it, so I add, “Now. Now I’m fine. I just needed some air.” Not because I was pooping! I want to scream, mortified, but I just press my lips together so I don’t seem even more unhinged.
He smiles, and I notice that his eyes look a little sleepy when he does, heavy lidded under the weight of his dark eyelashes. They’re so thick, the kind of thick girls go to expensive monthly appointments in order to achieve.
“Yeah, I get it,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Ms. McKinney can be kind of a know-it-all sometimes. I need air too. And my dad says her books aren’t very good anyway . . . never made the list.”
He laughs, and I find myself joining in, even though I don’t really agree with what he’s saying.
“And those people in there.” He shakes his head. “Those workshops are torture.”
“Right?” Though I obviously don’t think they’re torture for the same reason.
“But you . . .” He reaches one of his brown boots across the kitchen floor and taps the tip of my hot-pink ballet flat. I feel it pulse through my whole body in an instant, like an electric shock. “You probably are going to blow them away. Your writing’s probably real deep . . . real soulful. I can tell.”
I fight the urge to raise my lip. Probably just a poor choice of words. Instead I laugh, and I hope it doesn’t sound as manic as I feel. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Nah, I’m sure of it,” he says, nodding his head and smiling at me. One of his loose curls falls into his face, and he pushes it back.
“So, are you dating Weiner?” he asks. “I noticed you always drive together.”
My breath catches in my throat. He noticed me.
And not just that. He’s looked at me enough to notice patterns.
“No, we’re neighbors,” I say quickly. “He lives across the street. That’s why he drives me.”
“Ah, okay,” he says, and then he just stares at me. It’s silent. But it’s not, like, an awkward kind of silence that I know well. It’s heavy. And meaningful.
“Nicoooooo, are you in here?” A chirpy singsong voice calls from the front of the house, and I jump, startled. That would be embarrassing enough, but even worse, I trip over the rug in front of the sink and fall forward.
“Oooop!”
I fully expect to land flat on my face, but strong arms catch me, and suddenly I’m looking up into Nico’s brown eyes.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’m so . . . clumsy.” The words make me freeze. Clumsy. CLUMSINESS IS KEY. Number two on our list! I didn’t even do it on purpose, but it worked. It really worked! I am being held in Nico’s warm embrace. Only a few inches from his soft lips. If I wanted to, I could probably . . .
“Tessa?”
“What is wrong with her?”
Poppy’s face falls into my sight, and I jerk up quickly, detaching myself from Nico. Her gray hair is half up in a topknot, and she’s wearing a white crop top, showing a slice of her porcelain skin.
“I’m fine. Sorry . . . I’m fine. Just tripped. Didn’t see that rug, is all.”
“Uh, okay. That was weird,” she says, looking me up and down. Then she turns back to Nico. “Let’s goooo, baby. I thought we were going to meet outside five minutes ago.”
So maybe that’s why he came to look for me.
“Yeah, I was just talking to Tessa here.” Her turns to me again, eyes full of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I can feel my cheeks turning pink.
“Well, come on.” Poppy grabs his arm. “I only have so much time before Ms. Vaughn notices I’m gone.”
She puts her tongue between her teeth as she speaks, one of those mannerisms some girls have mysteriously mastered that are a mixture of both sexy and cute. I wonder if it’s genuine or affected. And it makes me both hate her and want to practice it later in the mirror.
It seems to do something to Nico, anyway, and he snaps to her side like a magnet, nuzzling the top of her hair. I look away, not wanting to seem like a creeper.
“See you later,” he says, giving me a half wave. And then they walk out, arms wrapped around each other, probably going to their special spot to make out.
When I finally go back downstairs after the bell, Ms. McKinney is deep in conversation with Fedora (who’s actually not wearing a fedora today, but I never figured out his real name). I grab my bag and sprint back up the stairs before she notices I’m there.