I am dying to share the deets, all of them. But then I pause, frowning for a second. Okay, maybe not all of them. The average book advance is around fifteen grand per book. Maybe I don’t actually want to tell everyone that I’m getting paid half that. But the rest of it, I am dying to tell. I’m in such a good mood as I climb up the stairs to my apartment that I don’t notice Terry until I nearly walk into him.
“Hey, look out,” Terry says.
“Sorry!” The apology comes out of me automatically. As soon as I do it, I notice how he’s taking up more than half the width of the steps, how it’s him and not me who should be looking out. How does he manage to manspread while walking down the stairs? I wonder. Still, even Terry isn’t able to wreck my mood.
Negotiations happen surprisingly quickly. Within two days, Poppy tells me they’ve come to an agreement about all the important details. She somehow even managed to get Harvest to bump up their offered advance by $500, which is a pleasant surprise, given, as she said before, we’re not in a competitive situation.
“Poppy, you are a miracle worker,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“It’s all because of how great your writing is,” she says.
I’ve been represented by Poppy for months now, and our relationship has been cordial so far, but now, in the space of one week, we’ve gone to multiple emails each day, and the tone of my messages to her have gone fromDear Ms. Tate, I am so sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering ...toHiii Poppy! Me again. I was wondering ...and it is wonderful. Every time I open up my Gmail tab, I get a little bubble of joy as the page loads, because I know there will be an email or two from Poppy waiting for me.
“I gave Lindsay your email address, so you can expect a message from her soon,” Poppy says. “She’s so excited and so happy to be working with you.”
A message from Lindsay Tillman. Lindsay, who is about to become my editor. I have an editor! I want to scream at the world. I bite down on my lip to keep from giggling and thank Poppy. As soon as I hang up the phone, I hurry to the window and fling it open. I take a deep breath of fresh air, savoring this moment. “I have an editor,” I say out loud. My voice is so soft that the noises from the street below me drown it out. I can barely hear myself. Oh well. I was never a loud person, and that’s okay.
I turn around and pose for a selfie, but I’m not photogenic, and even after five attempts, they all still look weird. I pivot so that I get the most flattering backlight, and the bright morning sunlight diffuses the harder angles on my face and makes me look softer, younger. That’ll do. I open up Twitter and upload the picture, then I stop, wondering what to say in the caption. I’m smiling ever so slightly in the picture, one corner of my mouth pushed up, revealing just a small sliver of teeth. “Can’t wait to share my story with all of you. xx,” I type. Is that cute or is that annoying? There is such a fine line between the two. I mull over the post for a long while before realizing that over fifteen minutes have passed.
Before I got the offer from Harvest, I rarely thought this hard about tweeting. But now, it’s like I’m frozen. I realize it’s because now, I have something to lose. I’m about to become a published author, which means I would be a public figure, which means people would care about what I say, which means—and the thought arrives with not an insignificant amount of horror—I could get canceled.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself, shaking my head. It’s just a selfie, and the caption I wrote for it is perfectly harmless. There is literally no reason I would get canceled over this. I’m just being paranoid. I nod to myself and hit the publish button. There.
I straighten up. Life as an about-to-be-published author is going to take some getting used to. But it’s mostly good stuff. It will be mostly good stuff, I correct myself. A positive outlook is all anyone ever needed. I upload the same photo to Instagram and type out the same caption. I’m not as active on Insta; the writing community is much more vocal on Twitter, but since I will, at some point, get a book cover, followed by an actual physical book (squeal!), I will be able to post aesthetically pleasing images of my book. So I should be proactive and try to grow my follower count on Insta as well as Twitter.
With that done, I lower my phone with a satisfied smile. It feels great, doing something I actually care about, something that benefits my career and not just Annette’s. It feels like such an achievement. Now, aside from starting to become more active on social media, what else should I be doing to ensure my success as a debut author? I am so determined to be a publisher’s dream come true, to be a hardworking author who is talented at social media and does all she can to promote her own book so she doesn’t disappoint the rest of the team.
I open up Google and do a search for “2020 debut group.” The results are all wrong, so I change the search to “2020 authors debut group.” Even typing the word “authors” sends a shiver down my spine. That’s me. I am authors. I find a link to a Facebook group. It’s a closed group, requiring permission from the admin to join. I click on the FAQ page and begin to read.
This is a private group for authors who are releasing a debut novel in 2020. Please read the rules before sending a request to join. US Publishers only, and absolutelyNo Sharingof anything that is posted inside the group.
There follows an exhaustive list of rules that would normally intimidate me, but reading them now, I feel my spirits lifting. I have never known this kind of joy: the joy of exclusivity. Of course I didn’t; I wasalways the one being excluded. It makes sense now, why bullies like Haven work on the basis of exclusivity. The act of forming a group that you know only a select few people can join in turn makes you feel so unique, so wanted. What a delicious, addictive feeling. I can hardly blame Haven for doing it. No, wait, I lie. I can still blame her. But maybe I also feel slightly less angry toward her? You know what? I definitely feel less angry toward her. Is this what healing feels like? All these years, I have longed to move on from the nightmare that was my middle and high school years but lacked the know-how. I know all the pretty sayings about moving on, but I never understood how one actually moves on. How do you just let go of past hurts, especially when they’ve gouged wounds so deep into your personality, your memories, your very being? How do you make yourself heal?
Well, here’s the answer. You thrive. You focus on what you love and devote all of yourself to it, and the fruits of your labor will heal you. It is only when I blink that I realize my eyes are moist. I utter a small laugh. Can’t believe I’m getting teary eyed over joining the debut group. God, I’m ridiculous. If only Dani were still around. If only she and I had the chance to make up, start our friendship over again. She would’ve squealed out loud like a little kid and hugged me so tight that I’d wheeze for breath. She would’ve been so happy for me. I shake my head and, smiling, click on the “Join Group” button.
I fill out the form as quickly as I can, my fingers clumsy with excitement. I misspell my name, then the title of my book, and have to go back and retype them. The surge of pride as I fill out the publisher’s name is overwhelming. When I’m done, I read over my answers twice before sending the form. A private club. Isn’t that what this is? And over the years, what with me being so active in the online writing community, I am well versed in the social norms. Unlike when socializing in real life, at which I am painfully awkward, swinging wildly from being tongue tied to talking too much, online I am thoughtful, funny, witty. I crack people up effortlessly and reveal a vulnerability that makes people comfortable enough to open up to me. I have a handful of close onlinefriends, and I would say these friendships are as meaningful as, if not more meaningful than, real-life ones. Our conversations go deeper, I’m sure, than most people get into with their meatspace friends.
I lean back with a contented sigh. So much has already happened, and yet there is still so much to look forward to. And once I get into the debut group, I know it will be my time to shine. It’ll be something I am so much better at than Haven. Haven, who is sunshine personified on the surface, but a monster underneath. In a debut group, it hardly matters what you look like in person; everyone only cares about your personality. They will be able to sense if you are a good person or not, and the knowledge that this is the one space where, even if it were shared between Haven and me, I would shine, brings me much more satisfaction than I would care to admit.
Chapter 5
Age Sixteen
This, I tell myself as I walk down the school hallway to the student kitchen, my arms laden with ingredients, is going to change everything. This is me taking back control of my life. This is me being proactive and setting a new trajectory for myself.
Unbidden, the bitter memories of the past two weeks float up to the surface. The last two weeks have been a nightmare where I’ve been trying—and failing—to join a club at school. Miss Jordan told me that it is “imperative” that I have at least one extracurricular activity on my school records for college applications. She really likes to use the wordimperative.
When I told her that every single club rejected me, she narrowed her eyes like I was making it up. I told her it’s true. The school magazine rejected me, the debate society rejected me, even chess club. Chess club! I don’t even like chess—that’s how desperate I was. Then I saw Miss Jordan’s face settle into an expression I hate so much. Pity. I don’t need her pity. I need her to fix things for me. But how could she, when she didn’t even know why I was rejected everywhere? I couldn’t tell her it was because of Haven, even though I knew it was. I can totally see her telling them “Don’t let Fern into your club, she’s such a loser.” And they would listen. And it wouldn’t even be a hard thing for them to do, because who cares about me? I’m a nobody, thanks to Haven. I haveno friends because she’s been poisoning the well and everyone looks at me weird. I don’t even want to think about the things she’s been saying about me.
But none of that matters now, I remind myself. Haven may have knocked me down repeatedly, but I am not giving up. Last week, in a burst of inspiration, I talked to Miss Jordan and asked if I could start my own club. How’s that for proactive? She was so pleased when she heard that because she knows how much I love to bake, and she even helped reserve the school’s kitchen for me. I made all these flyers and posted them all over the school, and I just know this club is going to change my life.
Outside the kitchen, I take a deep breath and plaster a huge smile onto my face before opening the door, reciting my practiced greeting as I walk in.
“Hi! And welcome to ...” The rest of my sentence trails off as I take in the vast space before me. There is no one here.
For a second, I stand in the doorway, frozen, then I shake myself out of it. I walk to the kitchen counter and place my heavy bags of flour, eggs, and sugar down. I glance up at the clock. Still five minutes to go before the official start of baking club, so people are probably still on their way here, I tell myself. I start taking out all my ingredients and arrange them nicely on the countertop while reminding myself to keep breathing. My breathing is slightly shaky, though, and I know it won’t take much for me to burst into tears. Even though there’s no one here, I feel exposed, like I’m being watched.
The door swings open, and my head jerks up eagerly. It’s Fia Pereira, an exchange student from Portugal.
