Chapter 1
“Because I don’t know who I want to be,” I said.“What is so hard to understand about that?”
Keme groaned.
Millie beamed at me.
Around us, the crowd of the Northern Noir Writing Conference milled and churned, moving slowly through the long, high-ceilinged gallery of Arcadia College’s Lorraine Mildred Cook Conference Center.
“You don’t have to wear a costume,” Keme said.
“But you can if you want,” Millie said.
“It’s a surf competition,” Keme said.“It’s not a Halloween party.”
“But you said it was Halloweenthemed,” I said.
Keme did that neck-cracking thing he does when he’s about five seconds away from giving me a wedgie.
“And if it’s Halloweenthemed,” I said, “and if I’m going to support you as your, uh, father figure, but also kind of an older brother, and maybe a little bit of a stern role model—like, what’s the less gay version of a Scoutmaster?”
“Never mind,” Keme said, “I don’t want you to come.”
“No, no, no,” I said.“Please.I’ll be so supportive, and I won’t talk to any of your friends, and if you don’t want me to wear a costume, I won’t.”
He was still clearly on the fence.
“You know who you should be?”Millie asked.“Fox!”
Okay, honestly, that was genius.Or was it suicidal?A part of me suspected that if I dressed up as Fox for Halloween, they’d have my guts for garters.(Or was I supposed to saystars and garters?Gaits and garters?Gays and gaiters?I knew there was an expression for it.)
The grim severity of Keme’s face suggested I would be disinvited from the rest of his life if I went to his surf competition dressed as Fox.
“How about this?”I said.“How about I come, and I cheer—silently!—and I’ll be unbearably proud of you, but I won’t, you know, ever communicate it or approach you or, um, anything?”
“Fine,” Keme said.
“Yay!”Millie said.
“Tomorrow,” Keme said.“Don’t forget.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, “because it means a lot to me that you—”
With a sound of rising disgust, Keme headed for the doors.
“We’ve got to get to class,” Millie said.“And he doesn’t like being late.”
I was still adjusting to the concept of Millie and Keme going to college—let alone, going to class—together, so I couldn’t help saying, “He was late every day of high school—”
“Bye, Dash!”
And with a quick hug, Millie darted away after her glowering, five-foot-three boyfriend.(He’s not five-foot-three, but one time I said he was the same size as a Care Bear, and I swear to God, he put me over his shoulder and tried to throw me off a cliff.)
I had about five seconds for a breather, though, before my ducklings came through the door.Thatcher, AJ, and Charlie were students in my creative writing class, and they shared two standout qualities.First, they seemed genuinely committed to their writing.And second, they were willing to give up several days, including a weekend, to attend a local writers conference.(Unlike the rest of my class, who had silently pretended not to have heard my invitation or, in one case, packed up his stuff and left early.)
“Quick check-in,” I said as the ducklings reached me.“What’s our goal?”
Thatcher, who had a beanie, a cardigan, and carefully curated chest hair, said, “Find an agent.”
